


I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent

by the_lord_of_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Parentlock, Sherlock Whump, Slow Build, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_lord_of_time/pseuds/the_lord_of_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty may be back, or maybe he isn't, but there's still trouble on the horizon. </p><p>Casework. Unexpected grief. Revenge. Parenthood. </p><p>These are normal(ish) days for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he and Sherlock had stood talking for what should have been the last time outside of the plane, he'd been stuck like someone had shot him with a paralytic. The problem hadn't been that he didn't know what to say. He wanted to say everything, and given the absolutely stricken look on Sherlock's face, he had known he wasn't alone in his agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first endeavor into fanfiction! I do hope I don't disappoint. This isn't Brit-picked, and if any of you notice anything too blatantly American, please tell me and I'll do my best to fix it!
> 
> The title is from Florence + the Machine's "No Light, No Light" :)

_Sometimes before it gets better,_

_The darkness gets bigger,_

_The person that'd you take a bullet for is behind the trigger_

_Oh, we're fading fast,_

_I'l miss missing you, now and then._

_\-- Fall Out Boy, "Miss Missing You"_

 

Sprinting around the corner of a dirty building while trying to keep Sherlock in sight was difficult at the best of times, but it was even more so now as John felt his energy flagging from their night-long dash through London.

"Sherlock, wait," he wheezed as he tried to catch his breath, leaning against a dumpster for support.

But Sherlock didn't hear him. He was chasing down an elusive man with blurry features, and the more John looked as the two ran further away, the more indistinct both of their silhouettes became. By the time they had reached the next street corner, it almost appeared like their fugitive had split in two. One of the men had slicked back dark hair, and the other had glasses that reflected light from the street. As John opened his mouth to shout for Sherlock again, one of the men they had been chasing looked back and winked.

"Did you miss me?" As John gaped in disbelief, the back of Sherlock's head started to ooze dark red blood and he slowed down, stumbling over the uneven ground as Moriarty and Magnusson sped away. In the next second, Sherlock and their suspects vanished, leaving John alone on the empty street. Falling to his knees on the damp ground and feeling complete despair, John faced the direction they'd disappeared to and shouted, "Sherlock--!"

The next breath John took was a large, stuttering one as he attempted to make his heart rate and breathing go down to reasonable levels. He sat up straight in bed, shivering a little as his sweat dried and carelessly wiping tears from his eyes. It had been months since he'd had a nightmare that bad, and as he got up to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water, he mused on its origin. Mary made a small snuffling noise as he got out of bed, but as he crept out of the room she quieted and resumed snoring softly.

Leaning against a countertop in the kitchen, John thought carefully about the reawakening of fears he'd been convinced were extinct. The nightmares he'd had about Sherlock falling had plagued him the whole time Sherlock had been gone, and he had only begun to have decent sleep again a few months after his best friend's dramatic return from the dead. Remembering exactly how he had shown himself to John again made him chuckle now, although he had been furious at the time. Understandably, he thought. He had watched his best friend fall off a building, after all, and the guilt he had felt for not recognizing the signs for that had lasted as long as the nightmares had. Curse of doctors everywhere, he thought-- their god complexes. You'd think living with Sherlock Holmes of all people would have driven that out of him, but apparently it hadn't. And the man right there was the core of his nightmare tonight. He'd been aware when he was still living with Sherlock Before that his dependence on the man was to an unhealthy degree, but it wasn't until he "died" that John realized the true extent of it. After the Fall, he had grieved like a widow for almost a year before he was able to snap out of it and return to the world above. Somewhere deep inside, John knew that when Sherlock was away, he'd missed John almost as much as John had missed him, but that didn't exactly make two years of mourning vanish like a snap of the fingers. 

Standing completely still, John shuddered as he remembered that he had come  _this_ close to losing his best friend again on that awful day a few months ago. When he and Sherlock had stood talking for what should have been the last time outside of the plane, he'd been stuck like someone had shot him with a paralytic. The problem hadn't been that he didn't know what to say. He wanted to say everything, and given the absolutely stricken look on Sherlock's face, he had known he wasn't alone in his agony. Their lives had been intertwined irrevocably from the moment they met, and having to say goodbye with such little warning to someone who meant so much had handicapped them to the point of barely being able to speak at all. Once the plane had taken off, John had been unable to move, feeling the Sherlock-sized hole in his heart grow bigger and bigger with every passing minute. Mary had stepped up to hold his hand, but he had barely noticed, too busy watching the plane fly away and wishing he'd been able to say more when he had the chance. The relief he'd felt when the plane had turned back around was indescribable, and he'd been the first to greet Sherlock, grabbing him in a bear hug the second his feet had touched the ground again. Sherlock's arms had wrapped around him just as tight as he whispered, " _John,_ " sounding shocked to be covered in such open affection. They had only let go of each other when Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat, and they stepped back, not looking at each other as they attempted to regain their composure. Remembering that, John had to quietly admit to himself that his nightmare was likely caused by nearly losing his best friend for a second time. Turns out the experience had been more traumatic than he originally assumed, and his subconscious had decided to draw his attention to it in the vivid way it had chosen to do so since the war.

Sighing, John rubbed a hand over his face as he wished, just for a moment, that he were back in 221B. Whenever John had a nightmare there, he had the comfort of knowing that Sherlock was probably still awake and experimenting, and so he would go down to fix two cups of tea and relax in his chair, eyes closed. He'd hear a quiet "thank you" from Sherlock for his cup, and then peace would reign. Eventually Sherlock would play some soothing music on his violin, and once John had been comfortable enough to go back to bed, he would rise from his chair, put his cup in the sink, and squeeze Sherlock's shoulder thankfully as he went back to his room. He'd sleep peacefully the rest of the night, and wake up refreshed.

A small sound interrupted John's musings of his past life as Mary woke up alone in bed, disoriented, and called out for her husband.

"John? John, where are you?"

"I'm in the kitchen. Just needed some water, sorry," he replied.

"That's all right. Just come back to bed soon, yeah?" she asked with a yawn. John answered in the affirmative, and as he headed back to the bedroom he heard Mary settle down again. He knew well that she kept expecting him to leave her or for his doubts to drag their marriage over the rocks again, but for the most part he was able to ignore the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock telling him he couldn't trust her. Shaking his head and telling Sherlock to shut it, John reminded himself again that he had a baby on the way and marriage vows to uphold, and you couldn't ignore the responsibilities that came with that, even when it was harder than he could imagine. After the events with Magnusson, all he felt towards her anymore was a sort of distant affection, completely unlike the deep love and appreciation he'd had before the truth about her came to light.

 _Yes,_ John thought,  _my feelings about Mary (or whoever the hell she is, I almost wish I'd taken a look at what was on that drive sometimes) are simple._ A bit reluctantly, he had to quietly admit to himself that his feelings about  _Sherlock,_ on the other hand, were much more complicated. Goodness knows they'd always had some kind of profound bond, even from the very moment they'd met, but that didn't change their turbid history or how John's emotions seemed to bounce all over the spectrum where his former flatmate was concerned. 

Yawning as he crawled into bed, John sleepily decided to untangle his complicated emotions for Sherlock later, in the day when things became clearer. As he settled in, he couldn't help the shiver that had just made its way over the back of his neck. For some reason, he felt the same inexplicable sliver of dread fall go down his spine that had done so right before he'd been shot, and he couldn't shake the feeling that everything in his life was about to go to hell in the same way that the enemy bullet had gone through his shoulder had destroyed his military career and turned his life upside-down. But he brushed it off as a leftover of the nightmare and his kitchen musings and dropped off the edge into a dreamless sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock could feel it, that mesmerizing, magnetic rope between him and John drawing them in closer and closer until it seemed like they would have no choice but to act on their impulses or spontaneously combust. Their eyes would lock and their breathing slow as each man considered taking the leap of faith from friends to something more.

_Tell me your secrets_

_And ask me your questions_  

_Oh let's go back to the start_

_Running in circles; coming up tails_

_Heads on a science apart_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_It's such a shame for us to part_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_No one ever said it would be this hard_

_Oh take me back to the start..._  

_\-- Coldplay, "The Scientist"_

 

**A day later...**

On the other side of London, Sherlock paced restlessly back and forth on the worn carpeting of 221B. His mind was whirring with no respite in the near future, and he could tell it was going to be a sleepless night. Emotionally inexperienced as he was, even Sherlock knew that the source of his insomnia resided in his circulating feelings about a short ex-army doctor with ash blonde hair and dark blue eyes that lit up when he smiled.

John.

Even after over two years of being absent from the flat, his ghost still haunted the place. In the kitchen Sherlock could almost see the faint outline of a man navigating the maze of Sherlock's experiments with ease, balancing two cups of tea in his hands as he chided Sherlock good-naturedly for not labeling the body parts in the fridge for the umpteenth time. Over by the stairs, Sherlock could see the back of his silhouette ready to climb up the stairs to bed, yawning as he said good night and rubbing his bad leg when his limp flared up, as it always did when John was exhausted. And when Sherlock looked down the stairs, he could see himself and John leaning against the wall, panting and grinning at each other as they reveled in the euphoria of another case solved.

Sometimes, there was a kind of tension thrumming behind the relaxation and the laughter. Sherlock could feel it, that mesmerizing, magnetic rope between him and John drawing them in closer and closer until it seemed like they would have no choice but to act on their impulses or spontaneously combust. Their eyes would lock and their breathing slow as each man considered taking the leap of faith from friends to something more. And then John would look away and laugh, peeling himself off the wall as he trudged up the stairs, shouting back at Sherlock to ask if he wanted a cup of tea. Boneless from disappointment, Sherlock would slump against the wall and attempt not to yell in sheer frustration.

And then he would drag himself off of the floor and go upstairs and pretend that every little rejection didn't make him feel like his newly awakened heart was breaking, even forcing himself to smile slightly as John handed him his freshly brewed and perfectly made cup of tea. Those nights were the ones where he would make his violin screech, letting the harsh music speak for him in a way he couldn't manage himself. And when John asked him why he wouldn't play something more pleasant, or watched him with questioning eyes, Sherlock just ignored him. Rather, he played all the more fiercely, eyes squeezed shut as he damned John's continuous oblivion for the millionth time. Eventually, John would sigh and go to bed, muttering about Sherlock being in one of his moods and leaving Sherlock to play in peace.

The absolute worst part about the situation was that Sherlock could see the potential for his ideal future with John with crystal clarity. The step forward in their already close partnership wouldn't even be noticeable unless someone was looking closely, and nearly everyone they knew thought the two of them were together already. Sherlock obviously cared very deeply for John and would be entirely amenable to a romantic relationship between them, so the only thing, or person rather, holding them back from that wonderful future was John himself. Who would say absurd things like "I'm not gay" when anyone with half a brain knew that human sexuality was fluid, and people often had an exception to their orientation at least once in their lives. Plus, he may have claimed to care about his (many) girlfriends, but who would come running from them at a text from Sherlock about any little thing? Who shot a man for Sherlock not two days after meeting him for the first time? Who, despite his best efforts otherwise, curved towards Sherlock more and more like a plant searching for the sun? And after the year of dealing with the Woman, John's obvious jealousy, and their unintentional cuddling on the bed at Baskerville, Sherlock had hoped that John's drawn out sexuality crisis was finally drawing to a close. All it would take was one push, a breath of air to shove them off the ledge, the proverbial straw on the camel's back, and Sherlock's ideal future could begin with John at his side.

But then all of the nasty business with Moriarty had happened. While he knew himself well enough to understand that having Moriarty for an intellectual rival was possibly the best stimulation he could probably expect in his (sure to be short) life aside from the cocaine, Sherlock had started to draw their thrilling game to a close the second Jim put John in danger. Threats to John were inexcusable and not to be tolerated.  

Breaking John's heart was never supposed to be in the mix, but Sherlock infinitely preferred John alive and hurting than six feet under. He hadn't anticipated the heartwrenching pain he would feel as John sobbed over his body and then delivered a devastating speech to his grave though.

 _John,_ he'd wanted to say, and then step out of the shadows. And after the inevitable shouting and punching and possible tears and maybe even-- his heart beat faster as he remembered that moment-- a hug, Sherlock could take both of John's hands in his. He would look into those storm-blue eyes and he would say,  _John, I have something important to do, something dangerous. Moriarty is dead, but he left quite a legacy behind. And not that I couldn't do it alone, but I think this mission will take some time and I would appreciate the company-- so how would you like to come with me?_   _As you know, I always need my blogger._ And John would say  _yes, of course,_ because how could he not? It was exactly the kind of rush an adrenaline junkie like John craved. 

Of course, he hadn't actually done any of that. Mycroft would have never allowed him to bring John along, and Sherlock had even resorted to thoroughly undignified begging after his brother initially shut down the idea. In the end, Mycroft had simply given him a sad once-over before telling him softly, "I'm sorry, little brother. But it simply can't be done," before walking away. So, Sherlock had been forced to stay in the shadows and watch as John visibly gave up on him, and then stare unseeing as he walked away, military persona firmly in place. The tear falling down his face went unnoticed, and as he walked to the street to catch one of Mycroft's cars to get to the airport, no one would have been able to see the shattered heart behind the pale, stony facade unless they looked deep into his light blue eyes or stared carefully at the tense lines beside his mouth. 

Through the two years he'd been away dismantling Moriarty's network, the only thing that had kept him going had been the thought of seeing John again and finally taking what he'd wanted for so long. Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair as he remembered how angry John had been when he reappeared, and he touched his lips absent-mindedly as he recalled the punches. In retrospect, Sherlock quietly admitted that it may have been better to tell John from the start that he'd fallen to keep him, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade safe, but at the thought of being so sentimental in public, his throat had seized up and he couldn't quite bear it. Flopping facedown on the sofa, Sherlock felt his heart twinge as a woman in a wedding dress appeared behind his eyelids, and he sighed. Mary. Mary Morstan. The other reason he hadn't told the whole truth to John. After interrupting what had obviously been a marriage proposal, everything had escalated and he hadn't had a chance to bring it up again, even after John had forgiven him.

Flipping onto his back, flashes of the following months began to flicker through Sherlock's quicksilver mind. News of the wedding, teaching John to dance, the unexpected, and he remembered morosely, unreciprocated hug, Magnusson, learning the truth about Mary, almost going to his death, and then returning thanks to his own clever trick. Being folded up so completely in John's arms had been a better rush than any drug he'd ever taken, and they had fit together just as he'd always known they would. Sherlock would sell his soul in a heartbeat to have that every day and more, but he knew John better than to think that John would ever choose to be with him over Mary, even if he knew the depth of Sherlock's feelings. Honestly, Sherlock had been consistently surprised that John had never realized that Sherlock was in love with him. It's not like he'd ever been particularly subtle about it, and you don't have to be the world's only consulting detective to figure out when someone's completely head over heels for you. And hell, John was the one who was supposed to be the one who was good at this sort of thing, so it seemed like the only explanation for his continued oblivion was, quite simply, bone deep denial.

Anyway, Sherlock's feelings for John had made what he should and shouldn't do in regards to the newly married couple hopelessly murky, but when Mary had revealed that she was an ex-assassin who'd then shot Sherlock, one decision had become crystal clear: John needed to know. Deep inside, Sherlock knew that alerting John to his wife's true nature may have been selfish, but he also knew that John needed to be aware of that part of her, especially since it mirrored something in his own psyche. Namely, John's tendency to make sociopaths his closest companions. Even if John chose to remain unaware of Sherlock's feelings, at least he could be enlightened on an aspect of his personality. All of that had made watching and even helping John and Mary repair their relationship one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but at his core Sherlock's only desire has been to keep his John happy and safe, and like it or not, Mary now played a key role in that.

And if that meant letting a known assassin warm John's bed at night, then Sherlock would even let her do it. He couldn't bring himself to be so vindictive as to project his own misery onto the object of his adoration, but that didn't make bearing said misery an easier task. Bringing his hands in front of his face while letting his eyes slip closed to take what John had affectionately referred to as his "thinking pose," Sherlock couldn't help but remember some pressing unfinished business. The man behind the consulting criminal's throne, the legendary sniper with aim even better than Mary's. Sebastian Moran. He'd been the last piece to the Moriarty web, and Sherlock had been in the process of taking him out when Mycroft had dragged him back to England. Seeing as Moran had been the one who'd been placed to kill John if he hadn't fallen, Sherlock had been absolutely furious with his older brother over his incomplete mission. However, when Sherlock had explained the situation, Mycroft had said he'd handle it, and since he'd now been back for over a year it seemed unlikely that Moran was still a threat. But. Sherlock pursed his lips as he remembered how the other members of Moriarty's band had been absurdly difficult to wipe off the map-- _like cockroaches, really, stomp on them over and over again and they still refuse to die_ \-- and he couldn't help but worry. And when he added in that whole "East Wind" Mycroft had been going on about, it almost seemed like he was being given a warning. Fine. He'd be careful, and he'd make sure everyone else was safe-- John, especially, of course. John always took precedence.

Sherlock shook his head as he thought over the convoluted route his mind had taken since the night's beginning and decided that Mycroft was correct. Caring was not an advantage. Life had been much simpler without a John Watson in the mix, but even as Sherlock's heart broke and bled, he was still intelligent enough to acknowledge that his life had improved exponentially thanks to the unassuming ex-army doctor, even as it became infinitely more complicated as well. If only he'd been able to take his own advice. But the second that John had walked into the lab at Bart's, Sherlock had known he was lost. Still, Sherlock wished that John had-- in the slow progression of making himself absolutely essential to Sherlock-- done the same and made Sherlock just as essential to him. But judging by the month-long gap since he'd last seen John, that this was not the case was painfully obvious.

However, as he sprang off the sofa and grabbed his violin, Sherlock reminded himself that if he was going to be miserable than he may as well do something useful with his pain instead of destruction and self-harm, which he had already done anyway. Angrily flipping through his music, Sherlock soon found the composition he'd begun after he left the wedding early and began to play, sawing at his abused violin as an outlet for the painful memory he'd just relived. But he'd only been playing for a few minutes before his phone rang, and Sherlock scowled as he stalked over to pick it up off of the table.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snarled.

His brother tutted through the phone at his rudeness, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at their familiar exchange.

"Now, now, Sherlock, is that any way to talk to someone bearing such good news?

"News?"

"Aren't you going to deduce it? Brother mine, this really isn't--"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled into the phone. "I'm busy, and you're wasting my precious time."

Sherlock heard him sigh, and then, "Composing again, are we? Well, I suppose you have your reasons." There was a small pause, and Sherlock was about to hang up on a certain interfering older brother when Mycroft spoke again, sounding mostly bored as always with a new dash of sympathy, "Sherlock dear, your John Watson is at the hospital. With his wife, who's currently having their baby."

There were a few seconds of silence, and then a thump as the phone fell and Sherlock ran off, ostensibly to change into something more appropriate than his dressing gown before he headed to the hospital. Shaking his head at his younger brother's melodrama, Mycroft ended the call and went back to playing his chess game to determine who they'd decide to elect to be the next leader of South Africa.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His voice wavered, just for a second, and then he spoke again, "It seems I have rather a lot of things to apologize to John Watson for. If I had known... well, no use worrying about that. It wouldn't have made a difference, and his grief was integral to the plan."

_I never meant to be so bad to you_

_One thing I said that I would never do_

_One look from you and I would fall from grace_

_And that would wipe this smile right from my face._

_\-- Asia, "Heat of the Moment"_

 

Mindlessly pacing the waiting room he'd been relegated to, John's thoughts frantically circled over his wife going through labor in the delivery room. He was going to be a father soon. Would he be any good?Would he be capable of caring for a baby girl?Would a new addition to their already fragile ecosystem shatter it for good or restore it? Turning the other way once again, John was about to step forward when a familiar pair of hands landed like iron on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. Looking up to see the high-cheekboned face,John stared vacantly at the mouth forming words he couldn't understand. 

"John. John!" Sherlock moved his hands up and down John's arms, attempting to calm the shaking man down. "John, you're having a panic attack. I need you to keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do that for me?" 

John nodded his head jerkily, glazed blue eyes glued to Sherlock's silver as he tried to breathe. Sherlock's reassurances seemed to be coming through a long tunnel, and his mind was still going a mile a minute. Suddenly, a connection snapped into place, and John's eyes went wide as he mouthed soundlessly, "Sherlock--" before his eyes rolled back and he toppled senseless into Sherlock's arms. 

* * *

Sherlock stared down at his armful of John Watson in complete shock.  _What had he done?_ Rearranging him carefully so John's head lolled over his right elbow, Sherlock maneuvered John to the available couch and put him on it gently. After he found a pillow he could put under John's head, he stepped back to take a good look at his comatose friend. Raking his gaze over John's prostate body, Sherlock saw John's exhaustion in the dark bags under his eyes and his nightmare from the night before in the continued tension in his frame as he slept. Unable to stop himself from reaching out, Sherlock dropped down to kneel by John's head and carefully, oh so carefully ran the fingers of his right hand down John's face. He'd always wanted to know what John's wrinkles would feel like on his calloused fingertips, and just this once he couldn't restrain his curiosity. The grooves on his friend's face were smoother than they looked from far away, but Sherlock was distracted from his observations when John nuzzled his face into Sherlock's hand and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like "Sherl..." Surprised by John's reaction to his touch, Sherlock dropped his hand instantly and closed his eyes even as he felt his face heat up in embarrassed longing. As much as he adored his friend and wanted to continue his tactile experimentation, John looked peaceful and he'd been observed pityingly long enough. Sherlock called to the person he knew was hovering just inside the doorway. 

"Lestrade, come in already. Lurking doesn't suit you." Sitting against the couch John was resting on, Sherlock watched as Lestrade rolled his eyes in familiar exasperation and settled gingerly on the room's only available armchair. 

"So what did you do to make him pass out like that? Not that he doesn't need it, he looks bloody awful. But I can't imagine that he would have done that voluntarily considering his wife is in labor right now." After asking the question, Lestrade slumped into the armchair, looking even more worn out that usual, and Sherlock gave him a considering look. "Speaking of people looking 'bloody awful,' as you so eloquently put it, you don't look so good yourself, Gary--" 

"It's _Greg_ , you dick--"

Sherlock waved this off and continued, a bit more seriously than before, "I... may have triggered him a bit."

Greg groaned at Sherlock's thoughtlessness and rubbed his face tiredly, and Sherlock could see him wondering if it was even worth it to ask what exactly the self-proclaimed sociopath had done to cause the sudden collapse of his best friend. After some inner debate, he heaved himself up in preparation for the conversation to follow. 

"Not that I'm entirely sure I want to know the particulars," he began, "but some elaboration would be nice."

 _How predictable_ , Sherlock thought. _Really. Goldfish, indeed._  Nevertheless, he decided to satisfy Lestrade's curiosity. Staring at the ground, he ran his fingers through his hair as he explained. 

"When I walked in here, John was pacing a hole through the floor and was white as a sheet. I walked up to him and tried to calm him, but all he said was "Sherlock--" like he'd seen a ghost, and then he fainted."

"Really?" Lestrade said doubtfully. "What did you say, specifically? It may help."

"I said, "John, you're having a panic attack. I need you to keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do that for me?" " Sherlock shrugged as he remembered. "And then he was out like a light and I put him on the couch. Happy now?" 

Sherlock heard an angry grunt from above, and then Greg was hauling him to his feet and dragging him out of the room. "Lestrade, what the hell are you doing?

"Out here. Now." 

The next moment, Sherlock was being pinned to the wall and Lestrade was about a foot away from his face, seething and exhaling heavily cigarette-scented breath. 

"You're an idiot, Holmes. Did you really not know what saying that would do to John in his condition?"

Sherlock shoved Lestrade away, but stayed leaning against the wall as he considered. "That's... that's what I said to him, isn't it? When I was on the roof..." 

Lestrade slowly clapped for his little recollection, and then he clamped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Damn right it is. And when he wakes up again, you will apologize, or so help me God, I won't be asking you for help for a month. He deserves better from you, Sherlock Holmes, and especially today of all days. And I know you want to give it to him, so don't even try to lie and say that you don't." Before Sherlock had opened his mouth to ask, he cut him off-- "Not even cold cases, Sherlock. None." 

Sherlock hung his head and muttered, "Fine," and then hesitatingly, "Was it really that bad? When I was... away... for him? No one's ever told me anything."

Greg shook his head and cursed under his breath as he recalled those two awful years. "Bad doesn't even begin to cut it, Sherlock. He was a wreck. Moved out of Baker Street within a week, stayed with his sister for a while before finding his own flat. He looked dead inside, like he was a marionette and then all of his strings were cut, leaving him hanging while you gallivanted around the world. It took him a year to even begin to look normal again, and then he met Mary. She really helped him, let him grieve in his own time, didn't push. He's had nightmares of you falling for years, you know. He mentioned it once over drinks, and he probably didn't mean to tell me that. He got horribly drunk that night. I think it may have been the anniversary, actually."

When he paused to see Sherlock's reaction, he almost wished he hadn't. Sherlock looked like a broken shell of a man. His eyes were watering and he looked seconds away from keeling over and never getting up again. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked carefully. Sherlock shook his head, and after wiping his eyes he waved for Lestrade to continue. 

"They were happy, John and Mary. Sure, it seemed like he'd always have a piece of himself missing with you gone. Never seemed quite right without a tall, thin man in a ridiculous coat by his side. What you two had... I've never seen anything like it. Don't know if I ever will. But he was moving on, settling down. And then you came waltzing back into his life on the night he was going to propose, and well, you know how the rest of the story goes." 

There was a long, heavy silence before either of them spoke. When it happened, it was Sherlock who broke the tension. He kept his face carefully neutral as he spoke. 

"Well. Interesting story. Thank you, Lestrade." His voice wavered, just for a second, and then he spoke again, "It seems I have rather a lot of things to apologize to John Watson for. If I had known... well, no use worrying about that. It wouldn't have made a difference, and his grief was integral to the plan." 

As he turned, presumably to go back to John, Greg called after him. "Sherlock!" He didn't turn around, but he stopped. "For what it's worth, well... I know he's happy to have you back." 

There was a small nod, and then Sherlock paused and pivoted to face him. "How did you even know that Mary was having the baby tonight?"

Lestrade ducked his head and muttered, "It was that brother of yours. Mycroft? He called. Creepy, that one. Seems like a good sort though." 

An inhuman growl escaped Sherlock's throat, and as he took his phone out of his pocket to harass Mycroft, he called back over his shoulder, "I don't like the idea of you two becoming friends! This. Isn't. Over." 

* * *

Looking down at his phone, Sherlock saw that he already had a text from 'The Fat One.' Damn Mycroft and his omnipotence.

_Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. I can make friends with whomever I'd like. Besides, didn't you recommend it? He is a rather... delectable... goldfish, isn't he? Time for you to be getting back to your John now. -- MH_

Clutching his phone hard enough to nearly break it, Sherlock texted back, _No. Don't you dare. You'll break him like you do all your other toys. Leave him alone. I need him, and I refuse to share. Toodles.-- SH_

* * *

Deciding to ignore Mycroft for the foreseeable future, Sherlock strode back into the room to wake up John. Only to have Molly Hopper rush in, eyes bright and dragging Lestrade by the sleeve, which-- _hmm_ \-- he didn't seem terribly unhappy about. _Too bad for Mycroft_. 

"What is it, Molly?" he asked in a bored tone.

"Oh! Sherlock. Greg. Hi. It's just that-- Mary's had her baby--" 

The sound of a newborn wailing interrupted her, and was shortly followed by one John Watson hitting the floor with a sharp thunk. 

"Wha?" he said, looking around in confusion. 

"John, hey," Lestrade replied. "You hear that? That's your kid." 

John's eyes cleared from sleep in seconds, and before any of them could react he'd rushed out of the room. Everyone followed except for Sherlock, who felt like a lead weight had settled in his stomach and couldn't make himself move. He breathed in and out, trying to push the poisonous feelings back down. This was normal. This was what John wanted. This would make John happy. And as he bitterly admitted it to himself, _I'd do anything to keep a smile on his face. Anything at all. So... into battle. Again._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he opened his mouth, he was instantly stopped by a callused hand curling over his nape in greeting and a warm smile from the tired-looking woman in the bed. "Sherlock," Mary began. But he cut her off before she could continue any further, saying in a bored tone, "Yes, yes, of course I'll be her godfather. You've been discussing this for weeks, after all. Can't disappoint--" but he stopped talking when he looked down at the small creature in Mary's arms, suddenly noticing something... odd about the baby.

_And the fever began to spread_

_From my heart down to my legs_

_But the room was so quiet oh_

_And although I wasn't losing my mind_

_It was a chorus so sublime_

_But the room is too quiet (Oh, the fever)._

  _\-- Florence + the Machine, "Breath of Life"_

 

When Sherlock cautiously crept into the room, he wasn't expecting the silence. Everyone was gazing at the tiny, flame-haired bundle wrapped up in Mary's arms, and no one had even noticed he'd come in. The silence was eventually broken by the baby's cries, and the room soon filled with quiet noises of cooing over the new baby girl and asking how Mary and John were feeling.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't need to ask such inane questions while he still had eyes that worked--  _really, was it so difficult to observe?--_ but he was waved over by the happy but exhausted couple and he sighed inwardly as he made his way towards them, anticipating that he would need to pretend he cared about such things as baby names and requests to be a godfather. But when Mary and John both looked at him with hopeful eyes, he knew there was no way in hell or heaven that he could refuse anything they wanted of him sincerely. 

A callused hand curled over his nape in greeting and he received a warm smile from the tired-looking woman in the bed when he made his way over to the trio. "Sherlock," Mary began. But he cut her off before she could continue any further, saying in a bored tone, "Yes, yes, of course I'll be her godfather. You've been discussing this for weeks, after all. Can't disappoint--" but he stopped talking when he looked down at the small creature in Mary's arms, suddenly noticing something... odd about the baby. 

Primarily, that she didn't actually look like John at all. Even how John looked as a baby, which he _knew_ , because he'd made Mycroft show him the pictures _(Shut up)_. She looked a little like Mary around her mouth and ears, but there was no trace of John to be seen in this child. Cocking his head, he raised a knowing eyebrow at Mary, who looked only mildly guilty and placed a finger over her lips to forestall him blurting out the truth. To help cover up the awkward silence, which had gone on now for just a little too long even allowing for him, he inquired, "What's her name, then?"

All of the talk in the room stopped instantly. Every head turned from their own conversation to the trio by the bed, and time stood still until John answered, sharing an affectionate look with Mary before he opened up the rest of the room. 

"Alara. Her name is Alara. Alara Harriet Watson." Every syllable was pronounced carefully, and the room let out a collective "awww" except for Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at the sentiment out of force of habit, and Lestrade, who was scratching his head in confusion. 

"Out with it, Lestrade, we can all tell you're about to combust from the sudden accumulation of an even greater amount of ignorance than the amount you usually possess," Sherlock said, still dumbfounded by yet another of Mary's lies, but conditioned enough to Lestrade's huffs of confusion to puzzle out the situation. Sherlock got a sharp reprimand of "Sherlock!" from Mary and an elbow to the side from John for his acerbity, but he ignored them and reluctantly turned from his emotional compass and said compass's still-lying wife towards Lestrade as he waited for the reply. 

Lestrade huffed and shook his head, and then he spoke with his usual bluntness. "Well. It's just that-- I know that Harriet is your sister's name, John, but where the hell did _Alara_ come from?" 

At that, John indicated for Mary to explain, which she did after a moment of smugness. "Alara was my great-aunt's name. I always remember thinking it was a lovely name, and I'd decided ages ago to name my daughter after her if I ever had one." 

There was a general "ohhh," from everyone around the room, and then it was quiet again. But not for long, because after a few seconds Sergeant Donovan rushed into the room, panting and pale and desperate. Her frantic eyes landed on Lestrade, and her shoulders slumped in relief for just a second before she began to speak, standing up straight and her back letting out a large crack as she did so. 

"Boss, they've struck again, and it's really bad this time. We can't understand any of it, and we really need your help at the Yard  _now_." Her eyes jumped around the room, noting its occupants and the situation, and they stopped for a few beats on Sherlock before she spoke again. "Bring Holmes with you, would you? This is his kind of case." 

Seconds later, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan ran out of the room, the men having given the required kiss on the cheek to Mary before leaving and Donovan giving John and Mary an apologetic smile for her untimely interruption. Those left in the room were blinking owlishly from the shock, but Molly only gave herself a moment to breathe before she stood up, ready to get back to work.

"John, Mary, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. If those three have work they need to do, that means they'll be coming to me soon as well. I'll see you later, yeah?" And with a small smile, Molly walked out of the room and headed down to her morgue. 

That left only John, Mary, and the baby, and all they could do was stare at each other for a minute before Alara started to wail. Mary began to croon and rock her gently, but she only cried louder. John couldn't help but wince from the noise, backing away from the bed and tossing an, "I'm going to find out when we can leave, all right?" over his shoulder before he also exited the room. Mary rolled her eyes at his flimsy excuse before she settled down on the bed, holding Alara close to her and smiling tiredly when she stopped crying, murmuring to her, "I guess we're both tired, huh? Let's get some sleep, darling." And that was all it took for the new mother and her baby to drift off to sleep, with the beeping of the machines as their only companion. 

* * *

 A man in the building across the street chuckled and put the binoculars down, stretching before he reached for his phone and made a call. 

"Nice work. They just found out about the murders, and now she's all alone with the kid. It's definitely her, too. I watched her explain the baby's name, and that wasn't a lie." The man chuckled. "Heh. She's slipping. Or guilty as hell and compensating. Good for us, either way." He paused, listening to the other line, and his face went dark before he spoke again in an intimidatingly low growl. "Of course it was a good idea, the big ones thought it up before they went and got themselves killed, you bastard. And if it wasn't for fucking Holmes, we could've had a lot more of those." 

The man on the other end could be heard frantically apologizing, but the assassin watching the woman only let it go on for a little while until the man on the other end of the line crossed an unspoken line. "You do not have the right to call me that. No one has the right to call me that, not anymore, not ever. Jim had it. Him, and no one else. You're a pathetic worm I shouldn't ever have let crawl out of the ground. Call me that ever again and I'll rip out your intestines through your tiny, flaccid dick. Capice?"

It was only when he heard a loud gulp from the other man that he hung up. When he'd done so, he flipped his phone through the air, grinning wolfishly as he reveled in the success of a good plan. It was foolproof. And so Sebastian Moran stood there, watching Mary sleep and laughing like a maniac as he plotted to burn their whole world to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... what do y'all think? Yay for plot? love you all :*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Striding back over to where Sherlock was still sitting on the lab floor, John crowded up into Sherlock's personal space and pointed his finger at Sherlock's nose. Smiling a little in that terrifying way he had when he was angry, he muttered, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if I find out that I've brought my baby daughter into a world where for some godforsaken reason you have some hellish involvement with another damned psychopath, I swear to god I will chase you out of the country myself. There will be no place in England that is safe for you."

_I thought of angels choking on their halos,_

_Get them drunk on rose water._

_See how dirty I can get them,_

_Pulling out their fragile teeth and clip their tiny wings._

_Anything you say can and will be held against you,_

_So only say my name, it will be held against you._

_Anything you say can and will be held against you,_

_So only say my name._

_\-- Fall Out Boy, "Just One Yesterday"_

 

The crime scene was almost as silent as a graveyard except for Sherlock swishing around the bodies in his black coat. As he "hmm"ed and examined the bodies with his little magnifying glass, Scotland Yard's finest valiantly tried to keep their breakfasts down. Some failed, but most, including Donovan and Lestrade, managed to stand there stoically while Sherlock did his thing even if they did look slightly green.

"Good god, how does he do it?" muttered Greg to Sally. "I know it's  _Sherlock,_ but this is some truly horrifying work."

"I don't know, boss. But does that assessment also include seeing what you thought was his dead body in the morgue, or does this top it?" Sally had the gall to smirk at Lestrade while she said this, and he was only able to restrain himself from strangling her delicate throat by Sherlock's timely arrival. However, he still had enough time to give her a glare scorching enough to signify that she was due for a special sensitivity course, and she ducked her head in acknowledgement with a slight flush staining her cheeks. _At least she has a little shame_ , thought Greg smugly, before he turned to Sherlock with an expectant eyebrow already raised high.

"Ah, Lestrade," said Sherlock. "I've found all I need to with the information on hand. Get your lackeys to take these bodies to the morgue, would you? I need a closer look at those brands." 

"Brands, really? Bloody Christ, who could we be dealing with?" Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, anticipating long hours of paperwork to deal with another blasted lunatic and desperately craving a cigarette. But the slight tightening of the almost nonexistent lines by Sherlock's eyes was enough of a reaction for Lestrade to understand that Sherlock knew more than he was letting on ( _as usual, damn it),_ and this might just be something tailored to him specifically. Again. _Fuck's sake_ , thought Greg, _the blasted man needs to stop showing off so amoral psychopaths can stop leaving us bodies like they're bloody cats laying dead mice at their capricious and generally unappreciative masters' feet._ Cursing under his breath, Lestrade took another long look at the exceptionally morbid scene before telling his people to bring the bodies to the morgue and clean up. 

* * *

 On his way to the morgue, Sherlock thought about the message he'd gotten from the crime scene, his face becoming more thunderous with every damning bit of evidence. The storm brewing in those silver eyes was warning enough for the cab driver not to attempt small talk with the detective, since every time he even opened his mouth he got a glare that pierced straight through him, effectively shriveling any meager conversation starters. 

Once he reached Bart's, Sherlock threw some notes at the infuriating cabbie and strode into the hospital, coat flapping dramatically behind and nurses cowering out of his path. He reached his favorite lab and threw the door open, coldly telling the startled intern to "Get out, I need to THINK," and when they didn't immediately react Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the matter into his own hands, yanking the intern by the neck of their lab coat and chucking them out of the lab. Huffing, Sherlock rubbed his hands together and sank down to the floor, his careful mask of anger slowly cracking into fear and frustration; gently, he leaned his whirring head against the cabinet and took a deep breath. His mental clarity needed to be perfect, unfinished business from the past complete with the messy emotions of failure be damned. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock entered his mind palace and raced down the stairs; he needed to make it to the throne room as quickly as possible. When he reached the ornate doors, he threw them open with a thought and walked to the dais. Sinking down to the conveniently placed cushion on the floor, Sherlock took his first deep breath in what felt like years and gratefully rested his head on his King's lap. John's hands gently carding through his hair and scratching his scalp were his only signs to begin, and Sherlock was about to when he heard a distant voice pierce his focus. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see the real John tilting his head at him quizzically with his hand stretched to tap Sherlock on the shoulder again in an attempt to get his attention. Biting back on the mix of emotions seeing John always brought him, Sherlock shook his head internally and refocused on John, who looked mildly concerned. Without precedence, Sherlock began to speak. "John, have I ever told you about a man named Sebastian Moran? Colonel Moran, officially... he was in the army for something like a decade, and he was well-known both for his legendary aim with sniper rifles and his unscrupulous morals."

While John looked startled at first from the unexpected opening, his face soon closed off until it was a shade akin to the darkest cloud in a thunderstorm. Opening and closing his mouth a few times before he began to speak, he rubbed his hand over his tired face and sighed before indulging Sherlock at last, and he said carefully, "Moran? Yes, I know him. Personally, actually. He was the leader of my platoon for about a year before he was dishonorably discharged. About time, too. Unscrupulous morals don't even begin to cover the extent of his depravity, Sherlock."

Pacing back and forth a few feet away, John paused to consider and then continued, "His exploits were the army's worst kept secrets. He was known to shoot our own men in the back and rape all of the women in every town we came across, and those were his more mild offenses. Moran is a bad man, Sherlock. One of the worst." Striding back over to where Sherlock was still sitting on the lab floor, John crowded up into Sherlock's personal space and pointed his finger at Sherlock's nose. Smiling a little in that terrifying way he had when he was angry, he muttered, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if I find out that I've brought my baby daughter into a world where for some godforsaken reason _you have some hellish involvement with another damned psychopath,_ I swear to _god_  I will chase you out of the country myself. There will be no place in England that is safe for you." Huffing a little, John took a couple steps back before zeroing in on Sherlock again. "Promise me something, Sherlock."

"Anything, John." Sherlock struggled to keep his voice even and his face composed, even as his heart nearly beat out of his chest. John hadn't realized yet that his Captain John Watson side was arousing to him, and he planned to keep it that way. 

Taking a deep breath, John looked dead into Sherlock's eyes and fought back his shiver at the flash of naked devotion he saw there, choosing not to analyze it too closely. More calmly now, he said, "If you're set to have it out with Moran of all people, if this is going to be another do-or-die situation, don't do it in London. Please. I don't ask much of you, but I need this. I need to know that my daughter will be safe and she won't end up as collateral damage in the dangerous games you like to play with criminals. If you need me, you'll have me. But keep my family out of it." 

Sherlock didn't hesitate for a second. "Of course, John. Alara will be safe. On my word as her godfather, I will promise you that." Smirking a little, he said, "Mary, now... if you haven't noticed, John, she's a bit dangerous in her own right." Winking, he continued, "I think she can take care of herself, don't you?" 

Rolling his eyes, John shoved at Sherlock, laughing a little, "All right, you wanker, just wanted to make sure. I really need to go now, Mary'll be looking for me. Time for me to be a father." Straightening into his military stance, he took a deep breath and parade marched to the door. His hand was almost around the doorknob before Sherlock spoke again. 

"John, I meant what I said at your wedding. You'll be an amazing father. Have some faith in yourself." Glancing back over his shoulder, John took in the picture his best friend made, standing all alone against the counter, a blazing look of complete faith across his patrician features, and he swallowed hard. "Ta, mate. I really appreciate that." And then he stepped out of the room and was gone. 

Once John had disappeared, Sherlock sank down to the floor again and put his head in his hands. Seeing John was always hard nowadays. He was married, and now he even had a child, even if she wasn't technically his, he would still treat her as such-- the full family package. What did Sherlock have to offer? Eyeballs in tea, the ability to care strongly for only a few people, ever, and a completely wrong body type, if John's dating history was any indication. It wasn't exactly hard to see why John had chosen what he had. Shaking his head, Sherlock decided to put his bitterness on hold. It wasn't as if he hadn't already thought through all of that, and he had more important things to worry about.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock slipped back into his mind palace and took up his position at his King's feet. John was already looking at him calmly, waiting for him to speak. Sherlock took a deep breath and began his exposition. "You're right. Moran is one of the worst people we've ever encountered. But what you don't know is that Moran was to Moriarty what you are to me. A valued assistant, and his right-hand man. While I was taking down Moriarty's network when I was... away... he was trying to pick up the pieces in my wake."

The next part made him drop his eyes to the floor, suddenly exhausted. "When I say  _valued,_ John, I mean it in every sense of the word. They were lovers. In fact, I even think that some of the countries around the globe only legalized gay marriage so they could be husbands under law no matter where they went. They thought of each other as equals in everything. Moriarty's suicide on the roof was completely unexpected to Moran, and he even had to watch it since he was the sniper who was going to shoot you if I didn't fall. Per the agreement, he didn't shoot you. Thank God," and he had to swallow at that, because a world without John Watson wasn't something he could exist in either. "But he was angry and he wanted revenge, and as you said, he's a psychopath. So when he found out I was alive and well and tearing through his dead lover's web of criminals, he came after me. I was going to go after him eventually anyway, but I'd planned for him to be the last link in the chain to be eliminated. When he tried a preemptive strike, our little dance of death began. However, it was rudely interrupted when Mycroft came to bring me home. When I informed Mycroft of the situation, he said he would take care of it, and for the most part he was correct, but the crime scene I saw earlier today disabused me of that notion entirely." 

The hand on his hair tugged, and Sherlock looked up at his King. John was scowling reproachfully, and he had to take a deep breath before he began, just like his real life counterpart. Sherlock swallowed the wave of fondness back that swept over him, and raised an eyebrow in challenge, as if to say, _Well? Out with it._ That did the trick. John leaned forward and tipped Sherlock's chin up so he could look him in the eye, and he said, "Sherlock, what the hell happened at the crime scene? When you first ran in here, you looked like someone had just predicted that I would die tomorrow." 

Choosing to ignore what was hopefully a ridiculous prediction for the morrow, Sherlock replied, "Bloody crime scene is right. Half the scene was composed of the victims' blood, who were displayed in the middle of a massive clock. They even had a circle around them ( _a perfect one, how odd)_  and all of the numbers but two were written in their blood. The other two numbers were branded onto the foreheads of the victims, who were acting as the hands of the clock; they had smiles slashed onto their faces, Joker-esque, and their wrists were slashed up to the elbows. The piece de resistance, though, was the pink roses on top of the victims' feet, which were nailed together."

The information made John shudder, and then he muttered, "I guess that's where all the blood came from then-- God, that place must have _reeked--_  um, so what message was this horrific scene meant to convey, exactly?"

Sherlock smiled at his clever John and explained, "It was the time. The 'clock' read 4:35, which was exactly when I fell off of Bart's rooftop. Obviously, it's meant to convey a warning: he's going to kill me for real this time, and he's going to make it as flashy as possible." 

"I see," John replied. "But won't you knowing about it make that harder for him? Seems like an amateurish thing to do."

"Oh, John. Sebastian loves a challenge. Especially when duels to the death are involved. And he's very much a professional. After Moriarty died, Moran was in high demand by everyone for his particular skills. But he's only ever bowed to one master, and so he went freelance. I believe he may even be the deadliest known assassin in the North Hemisphere, actually. Isn't it marvelous?"

John groaned and sat back in the throne, legs splayed out. "So you killed the worst criminal the world has probably ever known--"

"He shot himself in the mouth, John. I wasn't the one who pulled the trigger."  

"--who happened to be the husband of the world's deadliest assassin, and now said assassin is out for your blood, guns _literally_  blazing. Only you, Sherlock. This would only ever happen to you." 

Sherlock snorted and looked away. "Mother always did say that I was special." 

"Yes, well. Your mother, lovely woman though she is, would probably eviscerate Moran with her bare hands if she ever found out he threatened her baby boy. That isn't news to me, nor is it helpful. What are you going to do?" 

At that, the question he'd been waiting for all along, Sherlock sank down and deflated, his previous good posture vanishing. "I'm not entirely sure, John. Mycroft will have found out by now what happened at the crime scene, and he'll recognize Moran's distinctive targeting as well as I, so I may be able to coerce him into helping me out of the guilt he feels for breaking his promise. But he'll either want to lock me up or spirit me away to God knows where  _again,_ and I simply can't have that. I will face Moran on my terms. Until he makes his move, I'll just have to be extra vigilant and use my own network to help predict when and where that will happen as best as I can so I can be as prepared as possible when it does."

"Are you going to tell John all of this? I think he should know. And he did offer to help."

"He has a family that needs him now. He can't be at my beck and call, no matter how much I wish that wasn't the case. I promised to keep them out of it, and I mean to include John in that promise as well. He doesn't want Alara to be collateral damage, but I couldn't bear it if he was damaged either. John Watson needs to be safe above all else, or I will consider my life to be forfeit. Understand?"

The King sighed and closed his eyes, reluctantly nodding even as he pushed himself upright. "I know you love him. More than anyone, I know, and what a disadvantage you think it is. But give him a bit more credit, yeah? He loves you too. And it would tear him apart if he lost you again. So be careful, would you? Don't be so cavalier about what may be your upcoming death."

"Yes, Sire." And as Sherlock bowed, entirely sincere, and then turned to leave, a hand grabbed his sleeve and then his shirt collar and brought him in close. John kissed him soundly, and then released him, although he didn't let go of Sherlock's collar. "Love you, you stupid bugger, even with this daft game you're playing." Pecking him lightly on the forehead, he whispered, "Good luck," like a prayer, and released Sherlock at last. 

Rising quickly from his mind palace to full consciousness, Sherlock rubbed his forehead contemplatively, a slightly bitter smile already in place.  _Would his John ever actually kiss him like that? Doubtful. But it's nice to dream, isn't it?_  He stood on wobbly legs and headed purposefully for the door, planning on what he would say to Molly and Lestrade when he got to the morgue, even though he already knew exactly what he would find. They didn't need to know the details. Sherlock took a moment to blink his stinging eyes back to normality, and then he opened the door and headed purposefully for the stairs. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding out from Sherlock that she was pregnant had been the best part of her wedding day. If John had found out about her past after that, she had one more thing to keep them together besides their wedding vows. No one had had any reason to suspect her of anything then, but it didn't hurt to careful. And look at that, she had thought when Sherlock had tricked her into revealing her deception and John forgave her, I was right. Baby= trump card. Take that, Sherlock Holmes.

_When I was a young boy,_

_My father took me into the city_

_To see a marching band._

_He said, "Son when you grow up,_

_Would you be the savior of the broken,_

_The beaten and the damned?"_

_He said "Will you defeat them,_

_Your demons, and all the non-believers,_

_The plans that they have made?"_

_"Because one day I'll leave you,_

_A phantom to lead you in the summer,_

  _To join The Black Parade."_

  _\-- My Chemical Romance, "Welcome to the Black Parade"_

 

John was the first one in the door once they got home from the hospital. He was holding Alara and crooning softly to her as he opened it, and when he pushed it enough to be able to walk through the door, he was completely unaware of not having had to unlock the door to get inside. Mary, on the other hand, exhausted though she was, noticed the problem with sharp eyes that grew flintier as she examined the details of the forced entry; she could see that whoever had broken in hadn't bothered to simply pick the lock but had chosen to just barge inside using the considerable brute force at their disposal.

 _Must they?_ She questioned tiredly.  _The art of picking a lock isn't a hard one; I learned how to do it and become proficient as a child of eight. And here I stand, and there's not even a lock on the door any longer._ Running her hand over the marks, Mary tried to decide if the culprits were amateurs or professionals instead who were trying to make a point. Taking a step back and raking her gaze over the door as a whole, she had to go with the second option. The door had been too systematically destroyed to be purely accidental. "Great,"she muttered, rolling her eyes. "This is just  _great."_

"Mary?" John called from inside the house. "Are you--"

"Yes, John, I'm coming in," Mary called back impatiently, opening the door. She shut it carefully behind her once she was inside and resisted the urge to grab her gun and go to a shooting range for a while. Hell, even to grab her gun and the packed bag she had hidden and just  _leave._

It wasn't like Alara was John's, anyway. That particular honor belonged to an handsome assassin friend of hers. His name was James. Mary smiled, cat-like, as she remembered the passionate fling that had accidentally led to Alara's conception. Finding out from Sherlock that she was pregnant had been the best part of her wedding day. If John had found out about her past after that, she had one more thing to keep them together besides their wedding vows. No one had had any reason to suspect her of anything then, but it didn't hurt to careful.  _And look at that,_ she had thought when Sherlock had tricked her into revealing her deception and John forgave her,  _I was right. Baby= trump card. Take that, Sherlock Holmes._

 Plus, James had been _much_ better-looking than John, and she'd felt it would be a shame not to bring what would no doubt be a beautiful, brilliant child into the world. The question of whether or not to keep the baby had never even been an issue. Tangible proof of her infidelity with such a handsome man gave her a thrill unlike any she'd had since her assassin days. Jameshad been a hell of a marksman, and he was even better in bed; he knew she liked it rough, and he gladly gave in to her whims, unlike John who had always treated her like she might break if he left so much as a bruise on her hips.  _Not to mention,_ Mary thought,  _James was entirely mine, and John belongs mostly to Sherlock, no matter how much he protests to the contrary. It'd be sad to see Sherlock pine so much, but his misunderstanding the tangled depth of John's feelings for him is the one of the only things still tying me to John. If Sherlock actually knew how John felt about him (if John ever even figured them out for himself), he'd take John from me in a heartbeat. He's selfish like that. I get it, because I'm the same way. Lord knows getting John to fall for me and repairing his poor, broken heart from the damage Sherlock had done to it in the process was enough of a struggle. That makes him my responsibility, that makes him_ mine,  _and I will not let him get away without a fight._

With that thought firmly in mind, Mary took her first deep breath since she had come inside and looked around the house. Everything looked like it was where it was supposed to be, and she suspected it would be the same everywhere else.  _Which means,_ Mary thought,  _that they left something here instead. Now, where could it be?_ She prowled the living room and kitchen, searching for anything that looked like it had been disturbed. Rounding a corner, Mary saw a bit of something dripping red out of the corner of her eye and retraced her steps back to the kitchen. 

John put his hands on her waist before she could look at it, and Mary closed her eyes involuntarily as the warm scent of sandalwood and _John_ washed over her. She's always been a sucker for sandalwood. James had worn the same scent. She steeled herself and twisted around to face him, making sure to block what is sure to be a great deal of blood from his sight. He smiled tiredly at her, and she reached for the bags under his eyes automatically before she remembers she was supposed to have let that particular urge die. John recoiled, just a bit, and Mary dropped her hand as the smile faded from his face, reminding her once again that their vague affection is mutual but her possessiveness of him is not. 

He cleared his throat and took a small step back from her, looking at the floor and running his hand through his hair before he looks up again. "Alara's doing well. Once I put her in her crib, she was out like a light. Before she dropped off, she smiled." He had a soft smile on his face, and Mary has to fight hard against the urge to confess her guilt when she sees how much he's fallen in love with her daughter already. She managed to swallow it back like she always has in the past, and tuned back into the conversation only to hear John say, "-- and I think she likes her mobile because of that gummy smile. She smiles just like you, do you know that?"

"That's... that's wonderful, John," Mary smiled back at him. She can't help it. His unwitting endearingness is captivating. He nodded, and then he said, "I'll be going off to bed now. It's been an exhausting day," yawning halfway through his sentence. Mary laughed a little bit at him; he looks like a tired puppy and he's far too cute like this, all rumpled and sleepy and collar askew. He looked at her seriously and asked, "Are you coming to bed soon, too? You've actually had the more tiring day. I'm sure you need the rest." 

Mary grinned fondly and rubbed his forearm lazily, saying, "In a minute. I want to check up on Alara first, make sure everything's locked up." All John can say to that is, "Of course," which he did before he kissed her chastely on the cheek and walking to their bedroom and shutting the door. 

Her smile fell from her face immediately as she walked the few steps around the corner and crouched down to see the bloody gift their culprits had left for her. She quickly saw that she didn't need to be so close, and so she took a few steps back and leaned on the wall, reading and re-reading the message over and over again while she feels the imminent threat pounding in her skull like a jackhammer on concrete. 

_Anzhelika Grisha Renata Anfisa, o chem dovol'no malen'kaya zhizn' u vas yest'. Vam ne pridetsya yego gorazdo dol'she. U vas yest' dolgi dlya pogasheniya , pomnyu. I Anfisa vsegda platit svoi dolgi._

The Russian came easier than she expected, but she wasn't too surprised. She lived there for most of her life, after all. What concerned her was the message. She hasn't been called by her true name in  _years,_ and that they're using it now indicates that she is in severe danger. Thankfully, it doesn't mention anything about John or Alara, but then again she knows that they don't have the same connections she has, the same old family ties and dangerous games of debts and nobility. She reached out and swiped a finger across a bloody letter, licking it clean slowly. The blood is relatively fresh, only a day or so old, and has the slight tang that blood does when people die in fear. She sighed and stood up straight, cracking her back, wishing for a massage before she has to deal with this mess. Unfortunately, it doesn't say  _when_ they might be coming for her, and there's no clue whatsoever to go on until they do.

So even though her heart was pounding like a fleeing rabbit and her mind was spinning with calculations and half-formed theories and ideas, Mary's face was blank and her hands still when she cleaned up the blood and threw away the bloody towels outside before lighting a match and setting them aflame. Her face remained impassive when she went to the window to shut the curtains, and her mask cracked only when she went into the nursery and kissed her daughter goodnight, whisper-singing a Russian lullaby as she smiled softly and stroked the fluffy red hair from Alara's forehead. 

Mary was still calm when she went into the bedroom, grabbed her pajamas, and changed in the bathroom before she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was peaceful when she curled up beside his warm body, and there was even a little smile on her face as she dropped off to sleep in the darkness. As far as she's concerned, there's nothing to worry about while she's still in the house. And if any problems do arise, she and John are light enough sleepers and capable enough fighters to handle any problems that may come her way in the night and early morning. It also doesn't hurt that she's hidden loaded firearms in every area of the house, and so Mary Watson fell asleep easily, with a little smirk on her face, and dreamt not at all. 

* * *

 The house across the street wasn't quite as peaceful as the Watsons'. Sebastian Moran had been watching the house for the past twelve hours with his associate, excluding the intermittent time when they'd gone over and his associate, tongue peeking out from his lips in concentration, had painted their bloody message on "Mary's" cabinets. They'd had fun destroying the door and defacing the house, but Mary's reactions had been disappointing and her husband hadn't noticed anything amiss at all. 

" _Why didn't they do anything? Why?_ You said that she would run! You  _promised_ me!" Sebastian roared at his Russian accomplice while he paced furiously back and forth on the worn carpet floor. "But  _nooo,_ she just looked over the door and walked inside. And then she closed the curtains like she was some bloody mannequin and went to  _sleep!"_

Wrinkling his nose slightly at the rancid smell of the abandoned house and the dead homeless man Moran hadn't bothered to clear away, the young Russian stared his English boss-- breathing heavily about a foot from his face-- down and stated calmly, "It is the Anfisa way, friend. My dear cousin is merely clinging to the remnants of her heritage and training. Soon, you will see the results of our message. She  _will_ flee, and then we will snuff out her life. Haven't you ever heard of the saying, 'Patience is a virtue?' I would suggest putting that into practice, Sebby." 

Sebastian had the Russian pinned to the wall and gasping for air underneath the weight of the forearm crushing his windpipe in under a minute. Sebastian was grinning wildly and had plucked a long knife out of his jacket, twirling it expertly in the hand not squashing the shorter Russian to the wall. Clucking his tongue, he said, "Now, now. What did I tell you about calling me that? That name was only reserved for one, and you are certainly not him, are you?" 

The Russian's eyes widened in fear and he started muttering curses and apologies, but all that did was make Sebastian's smile wider, and eventually his hostage's pleas for mercy died off. He was shaking like a leaf in the breeze, but Sebastian knew better than to give him any leeway. He was as dangerous as Sebastian himself, and to anger his family would be to invite certain death. But frankly, Sebastian couldn't care less. He's been so bored lately, and taking out the Anfisas one by one after dealing with Holmes, and with luck his ice brother as well, just might get his cold blood pumping again like it always did when he played with life and death. 

The Russian made a break for it the second that Sebastian's arm was an inch from his throat instead of crushing his windpipe before Sebastian got that look in his eye that meant he was thinking about squeezing the younger Holmes's pale throat until his eyes popped out of his head while Watson watched on in ashen horror-- again. It was a recurring fantasy, and the Russian seized his opportunity the instant he noticed the telltale gleam in Sebastian's eyes. He slithered underneath the arm like he was some kind of eel and sprinted for the door, heart thundering in his chest, only to find it locked and bolted. With no way out and no desire to die with a knife in his back (if he's going to die today, he's going to do it with dignity, thank you), he forced himself to turn around slowly and stand up perfectly straight with his back against the door and his hands held loosely by his sides.

Gulping in fear because his family may be terrifying but this grinning madman standing in the middle of the room twirling a knife like it's some harmless baton scares him more than all of them put together, the Russian raised his hands slowly and attempted to placate the beast. "Sebastian," he says (and his voice doesn't crack embarrassingly on the name, not at all, even with the fear rolling off of him in waves)-- "Sebastian, please. Think for just _one second_ about exactly what you want to do to me before you do it. Just one." And then he slid off the door and began to circle Sebastian predatorily, new steel in his spine even if his hands would betray his false confidence by shaking if he wasn't clasping them so tightly together. This man with the icy blue eyes and the dead smile was dangerous, unbelievably so, and he can't forget that for even a moment. Inhaling deeply, the Russian stopped his prowl and took a small step forward to look Sebastian dead in the eyes. Unsurprisingly, Sebastian is still smiling, but the knife he'd been twirling in his hand has been dropped to the floor and kicked to the side for a reason the Russian doesn't want to name but sends a trickle of fear down his spine anyway. He shakes it off, rolling his shoulders as subtly as he can; however, the uptick in Sebastian's smile was immediately apparent when he noticed the Russian's twitch.  _  
_

"Now why the hell would I do that?" Sebastian asked, quietly. "I don't need to think about my next move. I don't need to think about my next  _ten_ moves. Everything has been planned, every eventuality prepared for-- did you honestly think I didn't factor anything you could possibly think to do into my plans?!" he suddenly roared, making the Russian stumble backwards as Sebastian stalked towards him. Grabbing his collar and yanking him close, Sebastian tilted his head and grinned, a full-blown manic smile like he'd just seen the love of his life walking down the aisle towards him and not just the face of a young Russian man sweating buckets and leaking fear from every pore. "Ohh," Sebastian breathed. "... You really thought this might throw a wrench in my plans. Maybe you even planned this yourself. Were you going to go tell your precious cousin on me, Luka? Were you going to advise her to leave, maybe to go ask for redemption from for her family after everything she's done? I would think you'd know better than  _that,"_ Sebastian said thoughtfully. "It would seem you're even more moronic than I thought, and something definitely needs to be done about that boundless optimism of yours." 

Luka quaked in his grip, and Sebastian reached out with his free hand to stroke him gently on the sharp plane of his cheekbone before he reared back with the same hand and slapped Luka across the face to send him sprawling onto the ground. The Russian sat up carefully and deliberately avoided probing at his face, but Sebastian saw how much he wanted to, to the point where he's nearly vibrating while he glared at Sebastian. But all that did was make him smile, a big predatory grin that Luka saw and couldn't help shivering at while his face became even paler. 

Sebastian tilted his head questioningly when he heard something unexpected from Luka. "Say that again? I didn't quite catch that," he said insincerely. 

"I said I'm sorry!" Luka shouted. Sebastian's eyebrows crept up his face as he looked askance at Luka. "...What? An apology? Do you think that'll make everything ok? Hunky dory? Will that bring Jim back from the dead? Will it return him to me?"

"No," Luka whispered. "Of course not. Nothing can do that, I know. But," and he swallowed hard and looked Sebastian dead in the eye so he'll see his sincerity, "I know you loved him very much, and I know he loved you, even if your relationship was one twisted clusterfuck of mind games and manipulation that no one but the two of you understood and confused the hell out of the rest of us. You never should have worked. It should have been mutual destruction. So--"

"So what? So _what?"_ Sebastian hissed. His eyes are watering slightly and he looked even more homicidal than before. 

"So I'm sorry," Luka said calmly back. "You warned me not to say the name he called you, hell, you warned _everyone_. You gave me a second chance, and I screwed up. I deserve everything you could think to do to me because I reminded you of the man you loved and lost and I deliberately did exactly what you told me not to do."

Silence reigned as the two men stared at each other, chests heaving. Sebastian broke it when he slithered closer to Luka and said coldly, "Yes. Yes, you did. For once in your entirely idiotic life, you are correct. Now are you going to just lay on the floor all day or are you going to stand up and fight me like a man?" 

Luka stood in answer and glared at Sebastian, entirely silent. He knew he was probably going to die soon, but that doesn't mean he would be going down without a fight. Both of their stances seemed casual enough, but the tension in their bodies betrayed their true intentions. Luka was the one who struck first, kicking a leg out to try to hit the back of Sebastian's knee and send him crashing to the floor. Sebastian dodged him easily and threw a punch towards Luka's face that broke his nose, sending blood gushing out and exacting a cry of pain from the Russian. But Luka just wiped his face, getting blood all over his sleeves, and smiled a little. Sebastian may have gotten first blood, but Luka's skill in hand to hand combat was unparalleled. Faster than Sebastian could blink, Luka brought his knee up  _hard_ and kneed Sebastian in the groin at the same moment he made a fist and punched Sebastian in the kidney. 

Sebastian keened, and slumped forward in a way that seemed like he was giving up the fight. Luka didn't trust him for a second though, and he was proven right when Sebastian's slump was shown to have only been for the purpose of snagging back his knife and stabbing Luka ruthlessly in the side. Luka fell to the floor, blood already beginning to stain his lips. He groaned in pain, and Sebastian's answering grin was feral. He stalked slowly over to Luka, limping a little, which caused a bloody smile to adorn Luka's face. He stopped smiling soon, though, when Sebastian reached him and kicked him hard in the solar plexus, making him lose his breath and curl up instinctively to lessen the pain. But Sebastian kept kicking him relentlessly, and Luka's whimpers of pain only made Sebastian kick him harder. He stopped when Luka eventually passed out, looking pale as death but still breathing shallowly in and out. Sebastian stretched, and then he hauled up the unconscious Russian by the lapels of his shirt and dumped him on the room's only available chair. 

He tied the unresisting Luka to a chair and gagged him, lashing him so tightly the rough ropes started making drops of blood roll from his skin only a couple of minutes after he's been trussed up like a pagan sacrifice on an altar to the gods. Tutting, Sebastian strolled around the chair in a cruel mockery of what the Russian had done mere minutes before, twirling his knife while his hostage lay limply in the chair, (almost) dead to the world. 

"I didn't mind you, you know. You and your family both. You're a ruthless bunch, and I respect that. But I asked you not to do something, and you didn't respect _me_ enough not to do it the first time; I gave you a warning then." He was laughing when he spoke next, "Do you know how rare that is? But you're young, and I didn't want to deal with the fallout from your family. Dangerous group, like I said. But then you did it again, and that kind of behavior simply can't be tolerated. I will say that your apology seemed heartfelt, and your sincerity for my heartbreak is an admirable thing. But that isn't going to save you now. So I'm going to keep my promise, and you're going to try not to scream. Not that I think you can anyway, considering. But I know you'd try if you could." Leaning down to the just barely awake and shuddering Russian's ear, Sebastian whispered, "You do remember my promise, don't you? Be quiet now. We wouldn't want to wake up dear baby Alara, would we? Don't worry too much. Your death will serve its purpose. Who knows, maybe Anzhelika will appreciate seeing her dear cousin again. Even if he is quite, quite dead. And mutilated."

With that dire promise, Sebastian began his grisly work. A lone tear made its way down his face, and was summarily ignored. Luka mouthed, "No, no, no, please," behind his gag, but that only made Sebastian's smile wider. Meanwhile, across the street, John murmured unhappily from the nightmares and turned away from Mary, a couple of tears squeezing out. Across town, Sherlock awoke abruptly from his dream of falling and actually hitting the ground, shuddered, and fell back into an uneasy sleep. Mary slept on, completely unaware. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: Anzhelika Grisha Renata Anfisa, oh what a pretty little life you have. You won't have it for much longer. You have debts to pay off, remember. And an Anfisa always pays their debts.
> 
> Sorry about the wait! Oh, and if anyone has an extreme issue with the Game of Thrones stealing, let me know and I'll change it (but I hope you don't because it's awesome, right?) And I swear I'm not going to make this about the Russian mob or something. Honestly. I don't have the kind of knowledge for that. Also, if my translation is terrible, I'm so sorry, and please tell me how to make it better. Google translate can only do so much. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! Comment and kudos away, as always! I love having feedback, it's so encouraging :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lazy click-clacking of custom-made Italian loafers was the first sound to greet her as Sebastian Moran stepped out of the shadows of the rank alley. He should have looked like the last person on Earth to be in a place like this, but there was something about the manic smile on his face and the lack of visible weapons that instead made him look like he was right at home.
> 
> “Very good, my dear,” he called out. “Very good indeed. I didn’t even notice that little pea-shooter you had tucked away there.”
> 
> “Liar,” she muttered.

  _"In the end_

_As my soul's laid to rest_

_What is left of my body_

_Or am I just a shell?_

_And I have fought_

_And with flesh and blood I commanded an army_

_Through it all_

_I have given my heart for a moment of glory_

_(I gave it all)."_

_\-- Black Veil Brides, "In the End"_

 

_Has your heart stopped burning yet, Sherlock? Have my flames transformed it to ashes? They will. Wait and see._

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. His hands were steady when he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, the craved nicotine scorching his lungs. The exhaled smoke made a translucent cloak over the threat written neatly in blood on the expensive stationary. 

He used the last of his cigarette to burn the letter down to cinders, and made the call. 

"Irene? I have a favor I need to ask of you."

* * *

 Mary was on an early morning stroll when she saw it. At first, she thought she was imagining things, that all of her post-pregnancy hormones had somehow driven her mad. Praying to a god she didn't necessarily believe in, she took a deep breath and-- scanning the area around her for potential snipers (there's far too many options)-- walked slowly towards the body. When she got closer, she broke into a run, tears blurring her vision as more details about the corpse became visible under all of the blood. 

"Luka! Luka, no, no, this can't be happening. Luka," Mary choked on a sob, crouched over her cousin's very dead, very mutilated body. There was a small, distinctive pink rose tucked into his jacket pocket somehow untainted from all of the surrounding blood, and Mary shuddered. She remembered that particular calling card. There was only two people who had ever used pink roses like that, and given that one was dead...

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Mary turned around quickly, the gun in her waistband cocked and aimed at her potential attacker within seconds.

The lazy click-clacking of custom-made Italian loafers was the first sound to greet her as Sebastian Moran stepped out of the shadows of the rank alley. He should have looked like the last person on Earth to be in a place like this, but there was something about the manic smile on his face and the lack of visible weapons that instead made him look like he was right at home.

“Very good, my dear,” he called out. “Very good indeed. I didn’t even notice that little pea-shooter you had tucked away there.”

“Liar,” she muttered.

“You’re quite right. It was obvious. As was the fact that even though you haven’t seen this ‘beloved’ cousin of yours for at least a decade—“ ( _air quotes, really, Seb_ , she thought semi-hysterically) “-- you still recognized him on sight. Very interesting,” he uttered, moving closer.

Mary adjusted her stance, keeping her gun aimed straight between his eyes.

“Get to the point, Sebastian. I don’t have all day.”

“Now, now. Is that really the way you want to treat an old friend?”

She gritted her teeth, unsmiling. “It is when you’re obviously the one who took my _dear_ estranged cousin and made him into the poster child for why psychopaths shouldn’t be allowed to have toys. I can see the dried blood under your fingernails from here, and,” her eyes narrowed, “you _smell_ like you took a bath in his blood.”

“Oh? So that isn’t what you’re doing with your husband? My deepest apologies. I must have the wrong Anzhelika. Did you marry John Watson because you loved him, or because you wanted to own him? I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Everyone wants to own John,” she shrugged. “Or have you not met Sherlock Holmes?”

“DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME!” Moran shouted, the madman behind the mask emerging and effectively shattering the fragile illusion of sanity. “He should be dead! He _will_ be dead. Once I’m done with you, that is.”

“Careful, Sebby. That vein in your forehead looks like it’s making a bid for freedom.”

“WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP CALLING ME THAT?”

He was huffing in her face now, inches away, this seemingly attractive man peeled away to reveal the totally-driven-mad-by-grief snake underneath. Mary gulped, her cocky smile slipping away.

“Tell me why you murdered my cousin, Sebastian,” she ordered him softly, her gun pressing into his stomach.

“Oh, there were a few good reasons,” he laughed, sounding so much like his dead lover when he does so that Mary couldn’t help but shudder. His breath reeked from days of unwashed teeth and cheap cigars, causing her to press back into the wall and turn her face away to avoid the stench. That was a mistake.

He leaned even closer, his voice rasping over her ear. “But the main one was that he got in my way. Understand, sweetheart?”

Now her gun is pressed against his head. Sebastian raised his hands in a defensive position, laughing. He even went so far as to go a few yards away and bend over, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard it seemed like he could barely stand. Mary decided she’d had enough of this, ghosted over to her cousin’s murderer, and whipped him upside the head with her gun _._ He fell to the ground breathless, still laughing even with the blood trickling out of the side of his head.

“You always were the one of the more deadly ones in your family, weren’t you.” It wasn't a question. Mary ignored it, and began to contemplate ways to kill this impudent vulture and get rid of the body and her cousin’s before she is swept off of her feet by the lightning-quick movement of the man she was glaring down at.

“Sadly, most of them aren’t around to appreciate you anymore,” Moran chuckled.

“What the _hell_ did you do to my family?” Mary snarled.

“Ooh, touchy, touchy.”

“Answer me!” She had her legs wrapped around his neck, and he was beginning to look just a little worried.

_Good._

“They were becoming a problem, and so I solved it,” he drawled, sounding remarkably bored given his unfortunate situation.

Mary let out a shriek of rage and went for her fallen gun while Sebastian went for the knife hidden in his jacket.

“How many are left?” she questioned, gun retrieved and back to being aimed at Moran’s head. “HOW MANY?” Mary screamed.

“Just you, your precious baby Alara ( _Sebastian saw her face white out with vicious satisfaction_ ) and maybe an uncle and second cousin or two. That’s… all.”

Moran used her momentary shock to his advantage and casually kicked her gun out of her hands. When she scrambled after it, he grabbed her, slammed her on her back, and straddled her shins, unwashed knife twirling in his hand. The part of Mary’s brain that wasn’t pumping adrenaline noted with disgust that the knife still had dried blood ( _from her cousin, no doubt_ ) on the blade.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to keep your weapons clean?” she spat up at him, struggling underneath his weight and cursing her petite frame, not for the first time.

“Feisty until the end. I like that.”

“This isn’t the end. We aren’t done!“

His voice was soft. “Darling, you’ve been out of the game for too long. I think you’ve forgotten how this goes.”

Mary’s eyes were wide when she started to yell, bucking and trying to find something, _anything,_ so she could fight. Sebastian sighed with dissatisfaction and slapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him hard and used the time that Sebastian was snarling in pain to push herself up to her feet and search for her gun. The angry growl behind her was her only warning for the sudden backhand that caught her across the face and sent her sprawling, once again, to the ground.

“I’ve had enough of this, haven’t you?” he asked conversationally. He turned her over so she was lying on her back again and yanked her hair, noticing gleefully that her second knock to the ground had possibly broken her nose, given the blood gushing from it, and her eyes were glazed. Moran straddled her again, this time firmly atop her knees, and Mary used the proximity to spit blood in his face. Not so dazed after all, and if the cold muzzle against the side of his head was any indication, she’d managed to retrieve her gun when he’d knocked her to the ground.

Stalemate.

“Would you like to continue this another time, or would you prefer it if your brains splattered all over that truly hideous wall behind you in the next five seconds?”

“Neither, I think,” he murmured. Mary squinted at him, and then she saw.

“Are you—you’re getting off on this,” she breathed.

Moran smirked. Her eyes were dilated so much that all he could see was black surrounded by a thin ring of blue. “So are you,” he shrugged.

They stared at each other in utter silence for a minute, their breathing getting louder with every passing second, and then they were kissing each other, bruising ones as they fought for control, their weapons forgotten on the ground as they grappled.

“What the hell are you—oh!--doing with a fucking knife anyway?” Mary managed to gasp out as Sebastian attached himself to her neck. “You’re a sniper.”

He detached himself long enough to smirk at her and say, “That’s for long-distance targets. Knives are so much more… personal, don’t you think?”

“Quite. Look, we’re not doing this in this blasted alley. In that door. _Now._ ”

Saluting her, he stood up with her legs around his waist, and they went back to devouring each other as he struggled with the door. When he got it open, they went inside and she slammed it shut.

“Put me down, and take your clothes off.”

And then there was the sound of clothes being literally ripped from bodies, followed shortly thereafter by one of the participants violently tackling the other to the ground. 

* * *

 Sherlock was on his way to John and Mary’s house, fresh from closing the opium den case when he heard the screaming start. He stopped walking. The sound was particularly chilling, and sounded… familiar?

* * *

 “It’s a shame you’re a woman,” Sebastian said, right before he slashed deep into the femoral artery of her right leg. Mary woke abruptly from her light doze and _screamed_.

The pain was close to unbearable, and a too-large amount of blood was pouring from her leg. She was blacking out, and quickly.

“We could have been so beautiful together,” Moran mused. “But, well, _Jim._ And _men._ You know how it is. Cocks are fucking beautiful, and I can't really say I've ever understood the hype around tits.”

“You… absolute… bastard--” was all Mary was capable of choking out; then he cut through the artery on her other leg, ripping another shriek from her throat.

“Don’t I know it, dear? Oh no no, no more wailing for you,” he tsked, slamming a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and panicked, and Moran could feel teeth on his palm. He leaned back, cut another slice into the thin skin of her neck, and left a bloody kiss on her forehead courtesy of the blood that had accidentally splashed on him from the dark blood spurting from her left leg. 

“Ta, Anzhelika. It’s been delightful. Say hello to Jim for me! Tell him it won’t be much longer now.” Sebastian's final gift to Mary was a pink rose, thorns still intact, drawn out from a hidden pocket inside his suit and placed carefully between her breasts. 

A door inside the building opened and closed, and Mary resigned herself to dying, three streets from her house, no less. Bitter tears slipped out as she gurgled on her blood. _I’m so sorry, Alara. You won’t have a mother. I’m so, so sorry._

The next thing she heard was the unexpected slap of expensive shoes on dirty concrete, coming ever closer, and then the door to the outside opened with a bang.

“ _Mary?_ ”

Mary opened her eyes.  _Of fucking course_.

“Aren’t you going to call for help?” she managed to get out.

He knelt down next to her and held her hand. “You and I both know that by the time anyone got here, it would be far too late.”

“Always… so… logical.”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Don’t let John be a single parent, and if you ever hurt my daughter in any way, I will haunt you to the end of your days.” He nodded, throat bobbing.

“She's not John's, is she?”

“No.”

“Naturally,” he said dryly. “But, of course. She will be in capable hands.”

“Thank you.”

The hand Mary wasn’t holding continued stroking her hair, and she found a small reassurance in Sherlock’s steady breaths. “Take care of him better this time,” Mary whispered, and she went limp.

Sherlock was shaking when he closed her eyes. “Proschai, Anzhelika Grisha Renata Anfisa. Mozhet sleduyushchey zhizni budet luchshe chem etot."

Then, and only then, did he pick up the rose lying on her body. "Oh God. Oh _God_ ," he muttered to himself. " _John_." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: Farewell, Anzhelika Grisha Renata Anfisa. May your next life be better than this one. 
> 
> There really is no excuse for how long I took to update this. I am truly sorry, and I will try to update again as soon as I can. Once again, if the Russian is bad, let me know how to fix it and I'll do it, and constructive criticism is always appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stood at the slab where his dead wife lay and didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Sadness? Relief? He knew he felt something, but he mostly felt… detached, like there was some kind of wall between him and his emotions. He had to admit that breaking that wall sounded distinctly unappealing.

 " _This is the end_  

_Hold your breath and count to ten_

_Feel the earth move and then_

_Hear my heart burst again_

_For this is the end_

_I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment_

_So overdue I owe them_

_Swept away, I’m stolen_

  _Let the sky fall_

_When it crumbles_

_We will stand tall_

_Face it all together..."_

_\--Adele, "Skyfall"_

 

"Sherlock."

No response.

"Sherlock, let go of the rose."

* * *

"Why isn't he saying anything? He's _Sherlock_ , for God's sake. He never shuts up."

"He did see someone he knows die right in front of him, Detective Inspector. But we do need to know exactly what he saw. What did he say when he called it in?"

"He just said that there had been a murder, and gave the address. He didn't say who it was, and when we got there, he was just sitting on the ground by the body, holding onto that rose for dear life."

"I see."

* * *

 John stood at the slab where his dead wife lay and didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Sadness? Relief? He knew he felt something, but he mostly felt… detached, like there was some kind of wall between him and his emotions. He had to admit that breaking that wall sounded distinctly unappealing.

He recognized, vaguely, that Molly was bustling around him, doing the necessaries for Mary. On the edges of his peripheral vision, he could see Greg and Mycroft talking quietly in a corner, and Sherlock slumped on a stool in another corner, still clutching onto the rose so hard that the thorns piercing his skin made the drops of blood welling to the surface plop gently onto the floor. Vaguely, he thought that maybe he should go do something about that.

* * *

 Sherlock hadn’t said a word since he’d called Lestrade, and then John. He’d made sure to dress Mary again before he’d called either of them. The situation was awful enough as it was without bringing Mary’s immediate pre-death activities to obvious light. He didn’t even remember what he’d told John to get him here. It was all a blur.

And then: “Who’s the man?”

“Judging by the similarity in features and build, probably a distant cousin.”

“How was he involved?”

“I’m not sure, Lestrade,” Sherlock gritted out. “I was busy trying to help the person who was actually dying, and not the one who’d already been dead for a day and a half.”

“So you’re telling me that you didn’t notice anything about him at all? _You_?”

Sherlock walked over to the other body on a second slab and unzipped it irritably.

“Late twenties, definitely Russian-- especially given the relation, tortured horribly for what looks like half a day before succumbing to his injuries, wears Red Moscow cologne, and he has the family tattoo on his right shoulder blade. Happy?”

“Family… tattoo?”

“Oh, yes. He was part of a powerful Russian mafia group, all related by blood, for most of his life. Until Mycroft came along, that is. Isn’t that right, brother dear?”

“They had too much influence on their part of the world. Something had to be done.”

John spoke up for the first time: “Mary didn’t have any tattoos.”

Awkward silence.

“Dr. Watson, I thought it had been revealed to you that your wife was only Mary Watson, nee Morstran, for five years. She must have had it removed before you met her.”

“She’s fucking _dead_  and she still has secrets,” John muttered angrily.

“I don’t even want to know, do I,” said Lestrade. “No, Detective Inspector, you do not. Nor, for that matter, do you need to know. Pretend this conversation isn’t happening. Same for you, Ms. Hooper.”

“Since I need to go do my job, that’s not a problem. I’ll talk to you gents later.”

Molly, who had finished cleaning and treating both bodies at this point, interjected, “I’ll walk you out,” and snapped her gloves off into a bin. Mycroft watched them walk out, looking slightly miffed, and Sherlock watched Mycroft and smirked.

While Sherlock was distracted, John walked over and tapped the hand still holding the rose, letting it finally fall to the ground. “Mycroft, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to go clean your idiot brother’s hand before it gets infected with God knows what, knowing Sebastian fucking Moran.”

“By all means, go ahead, Dr. Watson.”

* * *

 “This is going to sting.” Sherlock hissed and jerked a bit at the burn of the medicine, but didn’t move away too far.

“Thank you,” he said, as John finished wrapping his hand. “I hadn’t even noticed I’d been holding onto it for so long.”

“Right. Well. Let’s get back down there, and then you can tell us how exactly my wife died, and what the hell you were doing there at all.”

Sherlock swallows. “I’m sorry that I was the one there with her, and not you. If it had been you, maybe—“

“I saw her injuries, Sherlock. You and I both know that there was nothing I could have done. I can’t save everyone. And at least there was someone there with her at the end that she knew.”

“You’re really not more upset?”

“Oh, I am. But you warned me that Moran was around, and that Mary would do as she liked, and here we are. I just thought that she could take care of herself enough so that this wasn’t even a _possibility_ , is all.” His voice rising, he yelled, “She was an assassin! She worked for the CIA! Shouldn’t she have been able to deal with one stupid psychopath?”

“John—“

“Don’t ‘John’ me! Just tell me one thing, Sherlock—one thing—as a person who has somewhat recently miraculously come back from the grave, can you tell me with absolute certainty that the person I knew as Mary Morstran is actually dead? Can you tell me that I won’t be walking around one day, maybe holding my daughter’s hand, and see my dead wife walking out and about?”

Something in Sherlock’s face shuttered when he breathed out a _Yes_ and John felt vaguely guilty, but the guilt for feeling relief and his worry for the future were drowned by a tidal wave of seething, all-consuming _rage_. He was seeing shades of red like he was in a furnace, and even the heat waves that went along with it.

He, John Hamish Watson, was done with Sebastian Moran. It was one thing to poison his military career by association. It was another thing to threaten his best friend. It was an entirely unacceptable thing to fuck his wife and then violently kill her. And he knew that they had fucked; no matter what Sherlock said, he wasn’t actually an idiot, at least by normal people standards, and he’d seen Molly clean up more than just the blood from her wounds, even in his disbelieving fog. The one saving grace, if it could even be called that, was that there was no evidence that Mary hadn’t wanted Sebastian to fuck her. Before murdering her, of course. Horribly. _Right_.

“John, I can see from your storied facial expressions that you want very, very badly to kill Moran, and that you weren’t quite as unobservant as I thought you were—your nausea face is very telling, I’d work on that; and also, sorry for not mentioning it, I was trying the ‘tact’ thing—“

“Sherlock, please shut up before I punch you.”

“Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Rage is better, you're right about that. I will gladly assist you in whatever you want to do, John. Moran is evil, and he needs to be wiped from this earth like the vile pathogen he is. He’s even worse than Magnusson… but John, a couple of things. You need to bury your wife. Mycroft will take care of the cousin, don’t concern yourself with that. And,” Sherlock gulped, feeling a trace of guilt, but still speaking as gently as he was able, “you have Alara. She’s with Mrs. Hudson now?”

John nodded.

“As I thought. She can’t stay there indefinitely. She is your daughter, and the only remaining link you have left to Mary. I want you to know that I realize that being a single father is an enormous responsibility, and I will help you as much as I can.”

John shook his head, looking a bit less angry now and more doubtful that Sherlock could be any help in raising a child (but he had a feeling that Sherlock was going to enlist Mycroft’s cooperation even it meant drugging him again) and he appreciated the sentiment.

“But first and foremost, you need to hold another funeral, and begin the grieving process. I understand that’s not something you can avoid. Then, and _only_ then, will we discuss the best way to kill Moran. Understand? There is no room for emotion here. John Watson, if we’re to take down another psychopath, I need you at your very best.”

John took a few shuddering breaths, his hands clenched into fists, and stepped closer to Sherlock. Sherlock resisted the allure of the sandalwood, ruthlessly maintained eye contact, and tried his damndest to keep his composure when John, unconsciously, licked his lips.

“Will you swear to me that you won’t do that thing where you say we’ll work together and then run off to face danger alone again? Because, Sherlock—“ John let out a choked laugh and Sherlock looked mildly alarmed, “—if you even _think_ about doing that, I don’t think I could ever forgive you. Don’t make me do that. Just don’t.”

“I swear it on my life.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not on your life. You’re too careless with it. Swear it on Alara’s.”

“Fine. John Watson, I swear on Alara’s life that I will not go willingly into danger without my clean-shaven doctor at my side.”

The two shook hands, valiantly attempted to keep it at that, subsequently failed, and the shorter of the two men collapsed against around the taller’s surprisingly well-muscled chest and a striped blue scarf that smelled of citrus with a muffled sob. The taller man, free to look tenderly down upon the light of his life without repercussion, did (for just a moment)—before he squeezed his eyes shut and hesitantly hugged him, feeling strong arms wrap around him only seconds afterwards.

* * *

  _You’ll take care of sending the Anfisa cousin to his family? SH_

_But of course. Do I need to worry about handling the case of Sebastian Moran as well? MH_

_After you so royally fucked up? You don’t get a second chance. John and I will take care of it. SH_

_Regardless, I will have help standing by if you should need it. MH_

_We won’t. SH_

* * *

 The day of Mary’s funeral dawned miserable and rainy, and John felt the rightness of it keenly. Sherlock’s ‘funeral’ had occurred on a surprisingly bright and sunny day, and so was the day that he had begrudgingly taken his therapist’s advice and declaimed a feelings-filled speech. He had been indescribably angry about that for two straight years.

The man for whom he had killed within 48 hours, the bright sun that he had orbited around happily as an insignificant little planet, was _dead_. At the time, he had thought that if the universe were in any way fair, every day would have rain. Maybe some days would have storms and lightning strikes, or simply many random booms of thunder, but the idea that there could be anything other than a cold, dreary mist— _ever_ \-- was incomprehensible.

But then he had met Mary, and the sun had started to peek out from the metaphorical clouds. Maybe, just maybe, he could be happy again. And then Sherlock had come back, and he had a woman he loved and a child on the way, and perfect happiness seemed within his grasp.

John stood in natural parade stance and wondered if the universe needed balancing that badly, to take away someone he loved, only to give him someone else to love and then the former love back too, only to then snatch the latter love away, as if to compensate.

Or maybe, he contemplated wryly as an awkward hand landed on his good shoulder, the universe didn’t give any damns about him and his whatsoever and everything that happened, good or bad, was the result of the culmination of all of their choices up to that point in time.

He had to say he preferred that option, really.

“John,” said Sherlock, attempting to juggle Alara with one arm and pat John comfortingly with the other, “Janine said to tell you that while she thinks your progeny is ‘sickeningly cute,’ she really can’t hold her any more. And I have no experience with babies, so I would strongly advise you to take her back before I do something you disapprove of.”

John took Alara from Sherlock, adjusting her to fit in his arms without a second thought. The week leading up to Mary’s funeral had been a whirlwind of planning and learning how to properly care for a baby, with help from Sherlock in the way of articles about childcare and supplies from Mycroft. He hadn’t even had time to grieve.

During the funeral itself, he mainly felt numb, rocking Alara gently as the minister droned on. For a short time during his stints in Afghanistan, he had bleakly wondered if he would ever get used to death. There had been so much of it, all of the time, and he remembered wishing for it with the kind of desperate hope that had characterized the immediate time after he’d been shot. He knew better, now. There was no such thing as total desensitization to death, except perhaps if you didn’t know the person who had died at all. And that was never the worst part, anyway—the loss. The worst part was seeing the people the dead person had left behind inevitably fall apart.

The attendees of the funeral were nearly the same as the ones who had been at his wedding, and having to deal with their condolences when they had so happily offered their congratulations such a short time ago was close to unbearable. He knew damn well that, as the person being left behind, and for a second time even, that they pitied him. There may have been some genuine sympathy in there, but most didn’t know him well enough for that since they had been Mary’s friends, and not his; David especially had been savage with grief, and even Sherlock hadn’t seen fit to glare at him the way he had during the wedding. Mike Stamford had made a hasty but welcome appearance; when Harry didn’t show, John couldn’t say he was surprised.

Thankfully, he’d had Sherlock, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson to shield him a bit, and he had a feeling that Mycroft or one of his minions was lurking about somewhere as well. Molly stood next to Greg, and when they’d shared an awkward grimace, John had spared a brief curious thought to their situation. Mrs. Hudson was the only one to visibly shed any tears, and also the first to leave after giving embracing him for long minutes and sniffling into his neck, followed shortly by Molly and then Greg until it was just him, Sherlock, and Alara, staring at his lying wife’s grave while his heart rang hollow in his chest.

Sherlock shifted closer and asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Not just yet.”

“Ok.”

They stood in silence for a while, and then the sunlight began to fade.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“I realize that it may be inappropriate of me, but I would like you to know that you and your daughter are always welcome at Baker Street. I understand if you want to stay where you are now and raise her there, but if you do ever change your mind, that option is available to you.”

When John stole a look at Sherlock after that incredible statement, he saw him staring straight ahead, and only the faintest pink flush on his ridiculous cheekbones betrayed that a cautious offer to live together again had even been made.

He hid a small smile in the wool of Alara’s blanket—it wasn’t often that Sherlock Holmes was shy—and replied wryly with, “Thank you, Sherlock, but the flat would need to be heavily childproofed before I could take that idea under serious consideration.”

“Childproofed? Nonsense. Imagine how steep her learning curve could be under those circumstances.”

“I am. And that’s still no.”

“Very well.”

The two men stood in comfortable silence for maybe ten minutes more, and then John looked down at Alara, who had become restless, and said to Sherlock, “I think it’s time for us to go home. I’m sure that she needs to be changed and have a bottle, and I’m absolutely knackered myself. It’s been a hell of a week.”

“Quite. Shall we?”

They communicated their goodbyes at John’s car before John drove away and Sherlock hailed a cab, but the mutual displeasure of the _wrongness_ of separation went unsaid and yet understood, as it always did.

* * *

 Once even Mycroft’s minion was gone, Sebastian Moran emerged from a shadowed corner of the adjacent wood and sauntered over to Mary’s grave, gorgeous bouquet of pink roses in hand. He laid the sweet-smelling flowers on the freshly overturned earth to rest with the other offerings and started to pace back and forth, emphatically monologuing his everlasting struggles.

“I miss Jim, Anzhelika. I really miss him. Did you know that’s why I killed your cousin? He made one crack too many about Jim’s nickname for me, and I just snapped. It hasn’t been long enough to do that. I don’t know if it will ever be. My other half is gone. Let me tell you, the urge to end it all and join him in eternal sleep grows stronger by the minute, my dear.”

Then he made himself at home by sitting in front of her headstone, which was marked simply with _Mary Morstran Watson: Loving Wife_ and _With your sacrifice, your debt has been repaid. Rest in Peace._

“Well, at least they gave some homage to your heritage. A small truth in the midst of all of the lies. I’m sure you would approve. What was it like, Anzhelika, to be in a committed relationship with someone who was the half of a whole to someone else? I’m sure it wasn’t easy, even with your many talents. That’s how Jim and I were, you see, and we used to drive people totally fucking insane because the most anyone could ever be to the two of us was a third wheel. And what’s the use for a third wheel? None at all. But you won’t need to worry about that, if you are, for much longer. I will kill them both, and they will die incredibly painful deaths. What I have in store for them would make even my dear Jim shudder with pleasure, and the sweetest thing of all will be watching England fall when Mycroft Holmes’ baby brother is dead. Beautiful, isn’t it? Pulling one string, and seeing the whole piece unravel?”

Shivering with contentment, Sebastian kissed Mary’s headstone perfunctorily and headed off, anticipating the joy of turning his already well-equipped sex dungeon into the perfect torture chamber, for mind and body both. The way that Sherlock Holmes was going to die was going to be positively _delicious_ , and witnessing the slow downfall of John Watson and the Ice King before they killed him would tide him over even in eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so I haven't mentioned this yet, but if you think I need to add more tags or warnings or anything, just let me know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John, this is the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done. I need my brain to be working at full capacity so that we can be ten steps ahead of Moran in every scenario. Smoking one cigarette right now could be the difference between us living or dying in a week. So tell me where you’re keeping the fucking cigarettes!”
> 
> John blinked at Sherlock’s face a few inches from his own for a minute and subconsciously appreciated the aesthetic appeal of it while he consciously restrained the urge to punch him in his perfect teeth and make him bleed.
> 
> In the bedroom, Alara started to wail.

_"You think you're getting away_

_No escape from the deal you made_

_You walked right into his plan_

_Run as fast as you think you can_

_Back from wherever you came_

_Call the devil by any name_

_Oh no! Now who do you blame?_

_Should have listened to what I'd said_

_What I'd said, what I'd said, yeah!_

_I don't know if I'll be coming home again, home again_

_No, I don't know if I'll be coming home_

_It's a long road to hell without no soul..."_  

_\--Avicci, "Long Road to Hell"_

 

“There we go.” Sebastian rose up from his crouch and prowled the room, nodding as he went. “This will do very nicely. _Very_ nicely indeed.” He ran a fond hand over the table with the rusty surgical tools carefully laid out, looked approvingly on the revolving table with the mildewed cloth on top, and even smiled with true joy as he drew near to his own delightful invention: a machine that would draw and quarter someone, without the medieval need for horses.

However, the coup de grace was the vials of cocaine, bags of morphine, and small bags full of crystal meth. There weren’t any clean syringes or hospital-code tubing, of course. Could there be anything sweeter than torturing Sherlock Holmes slowly to insanity and then to death while he was high off his mind, when he could feel the acuteness of his pain with absolute clarity?

Sebastian didn’t think so.

He inhaled the smell of fear and decay like it was a fine wine, and breathed out his satisfaction. This was it. The transformation of BDSM dungeon to actual torture chamber was complete at last, and he was filled with ecstasy. He had rehearsed for this moment in excess, and now thanks to his ministrations, five more innocents were dead, _but_ , well, practice makes perfect, and all that.

“Showtime!”

* * *

“So, what’s the plan? I know you, Sherlock, and you always have a plan. Or twenty.”

“Do you really think you’re up for this? It’s only been a month since Mary’s funeral.”

“Yes, Sherlock, you’ve asked me this already. If I wait any longer to do something productive I’m going to go out of my fucking mind!”

“… That’s not reassuring.”

“I’m sad! I’ve been grieving! My newborn keeps me up nights! Can we please just move past this and get to the part where we kill Moran?”

“Well, actually—right, you’re not going to like this, I’m just warning you now…”

And Sherlock told John the plan. John didn’t like it.

“You want to WHAT?”

“You heard me.”

“No, no, no. Any plan in which you are bait, for fuck’s sake, should be vetoed the second it passes through that gigantic brain of yours.”

“You were bait last time. Technically.”

“And the time before that, and probably the time before—God! Not important! Sherlock, I really don’t like this.”

“John, I need you to overcome your basic caretaker instinct and let me do this.”

“Let you? So I can say no, then, and you can tell me another plan? One in which you aren’t the bait for the maniac? You’re no cheese, and he’s no bloody mouse.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to speak, but John waved him into silence, hunching his shoulders before huffing and sitting back in his chair, the UK flag pillow resting behind his back. He counted to ten and breathed in deeply, letting the familiar—wait, no.

“Sherlock.”

“Oh, now what?”

“It actually smells _inhabitable_ in here.”

Sherlock let the implied  _for once_ go sliding by, and said airily, “It’s always smelled inhabitable, John. No one’s ever died here from the smell of the flat.”

“Yes, but everything’s even dusted, and look—“ John was in the kitchen, examining the empty table and then pulling open the fridge, “—I can’t see body parts anywhere, and there’s food in here. Actual food. What the hell?”

The sound of violin strings being plucked like they really, really shouldn’t be was his response. John winced and rolled his eyes; Sherlock had informed him that he had multiple tells, but at least he didn't abuse a priceless Stradivarius whenever he got into a strop like a certain floppy-haired git. He’d bet his army pension that Sherlock was even standing by the window, naturally standing (posing) in the best possible way to illuminate his unfortunately perfect figure.

“You’re being obvious, Sherlock.”

“And you sound like Mycroft.”

John sighed and moved back towards Sherlock—he was exactly where he’d thought he’d be, naturally—and paused about three feet away. One of the most infuriating things about Sherlock was his duality; on the one hand, he wanted everyone to know every little thought that went through his head, and on the other hand there would be multiple occasions where he would tell nobody anything whatsoever, and he had a petty streak the size of the sun. He tried very hard to be cryptic, and for the most part he succeeded admirably, but by now John knew better.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make the flat seem more appealing so that I’ll move back in. With Alara.”

“Is it working?”

However, there was one nice thing about Sherlock. If you’d cornered him sufficiently, he would drop all pretenses. He didn’t seem to like lying, really. John thought it might have bored him. And as anyone who had known Sherlock for any length of time could attest, boredom was nothing less than the most criminal of offenses _._

John chose not to answer that question and muttered, “I hope Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the only one cleaning.”

“She wasn’t.”

“Sherlock, if I say that I’m considering your offer, seriously now since you’ve made an honest effort, will you sit down so we can get back to the plan?”

He sniffed and said, “Very well,” putting his violin carefully back into the case, swanning over to the couch, and leaning back, fingers steepled.

“What is even the purpose of you being the bait, again?”

“It’s ridiculously simple, John!”

Sherlock got a raised eyebrow in response, and he huffed before explaining more fully. “Moran is obsessed with me. Surely you’ve been able to deduce that much. Therefore, when we taunt him out of hiding—it shouldn’t take much—he’ll be so focused on finally having me within his grasp that the potential delight of whatever hell he has in store for me will blind him to other dangers and then you can shoot him.”

“I’ll be shooting to kill.”

“Do try not to.”

“Why?”

“We’re going to extradite him to the Anfisas.”

“The… Russian mafia family?”

“That’s right.”

“Why do they want him?”

“Revenge.”

“So do you! So do I! Why are the ones who get to exact justice?”

“In this case, they are both more likely and have more personal reasons—one of which coincides with ours—to make his death more painful. Also, less legal trouble.”

“We’re going to need to have a long chat after this.”

“If what you’re implying is true, then the plan is on. Excellent! I knew you’d come around.”

John’s face flushed a dull red, and Sherlock watched in fascination as the play of realization, anger, and resigned acceptance flashed across his face in quick succession. Privately, he called this emotional trio “the thing John’s face does when I’m more clever than him and it pisses him off, but he knows I know best,” and he found it consistently amusing that he was able to get John to the third stage, because the others (Mycroft, Irene, Moriarty, Magnusson) had only ever achieved second level status.

“Stop smirking,” growled John, “this is a completely mad idea and I still don’t like it.”

Sherlock was about to reply, but then he heard the distinctive sound of Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, and held up a hand in response. John murmured, ”Of fucking course,” under his breath and sat back down next to Sherlock in lieu of pacing and glaring.

She came in dressed in lavender from head to toe, and was carrying Alara, who looked around the new space inquisitively and made questioning gurgle noises. John observed this and sighed inwardly; that’d torn it. She’d never been that interested in the house, and he’d given her the tour four times.

She’d cried each time, until several hours afterward.

After they exchanged greetings and Mrs. Hudson had told them that she’d given Alara a bath and a bottle, Sherlock said, tapping away rapidly on his phone as he answered a text, “Great news, Mrs. Hudson! John will be needing his old room back.”

“Oh, he will? I’m so glad! It’ll be wonderful to see you and this little beauty more often.”

Sherlock finished typing and slipped his phone away, only giving John a Cheshire Cat smile in answer to the exasperated but fond, “I’m only doing this so I can actually get some peace, I hope you know,” grumblings from John as he buried his face in his hands.

* * *

_We’ll be mobilizing a week from now. SH_

_Please do remember what I told you at Christmas. MH_

_Not this again. SH_

_Just be careful, Sherlock. That’s all I ask. MH_

* * *

For this planning session, Sherlock and John were at John’s house. John had decided that as much as Mrs. Hudson loved Alara, it wasn’t fair to her to have to watch her all the time while he was with Sherlock, and since everyone and their brother knew where Sherlock lived, his house was safer anyway.

His thoughts were abruptly cut off when Sherlock moaned, “I need a cigarette. John, _please_.”

“Nope,” John said.

“But I said please!”

“Yes, and that was surprisingly polite of you. But being polite won’t get you everywhere.”

“John, this is the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done. I need my brain to be working at full capacity so that we can be ten steps ahead of Moran in every scenario. Smoking one cigarette right now could be the difference between us living or dying in a week. So tell me where you’re keeping the _fucking cigarettes_!”

John blinked at Sherlock’s face a few inches from his own for a minute and subconsciously appreciated the aesthetic appeal of it while he consciously restrained the urge to punch him in his perfect teeth and make him bleed.

In the bedroom, Alara started to wail.

“Do you want to know why I don’t have any cigarettes in the house, even though you are somehow my best friend?” John asked lowly, warningly. “That’s why,” he said, pointing towards the bedroom. “I have a baby. And while I appreciate the various loaded firearms that Mary stashed all over the house, I didn’t like the poisons. Because they are poisons, Sherlock, and while you are in my house, you will not be ingesting them or exhaling them near me or my child. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go rock Alara back to sleep.”

Sherlock heard the _Fuck you very much_ loud and clear, and made a strategic retreat. He settled himself back on the floor and went back to looking at schematics and strategizing, or he would have if he hadn’t heard John pick up Alara and start crooning to her softly. Normally, he wouldn’t have found that adorable, not in the slightest. But it was John, and he actually had… a decent singing voice? _Hmm_. Sherlock went back to work, absentmindedly breathing in the scent of sandalwood, John, and newborn that permeated the house. The faint scent of Mary’s perfume still persisted, of course, but it was mostly drowned out by the other smells at this point.

He shook off his distractions and dived back into scheming. What would be the best way to draw out Moran? He’d deducted that Mary hadn’t been specifically looking for Moran, but had simply been on a walk and seen her cousin lying dead in the alley, and he’d come up to her from behind. So. Vulnerability. He could work with that.

He heard John come back in, and the satisfied sigh of a man who had achieved success with his baby. _Best to apologize promptly_ , he thought.

“John. It has occurred to me that I may have been incalculably rude to you earlier. I’m sorry.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“You’re forgiven. Just, don’t do that again. Now, what have you come up with? I recognize that face. That’s your ideas face.”

“I was thinking about how to lure Moran out of hiding and into our trap, and—“

“Can it really be considered a trap if everyone involved thinks it’ll be a trap for his bait?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. But I believe that’s what they call mutual destruction. Moving on. As you know, Moran is a predator. Therefore, he preys on vulnerability, and he delights in exerting his power over those who he considers to be inferior. In fact, given that I sincerely doubt he’s religious, I would bet that something along those lines is what he considers to be his calling.”

“That fits in with what I remember of him. He always used to bray about the wonders of natural selection.”

“We’re going to create a fake trail for him to follow, where he will find me in a ‘weak’ position, posture a bit, and then drag me off to his no doubt horrendous den of pain and torture, before doing his damndest to murder me in the most gruesome way imaginable.”

“Do you really think he has an honest to God torture chamber?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” John said, getting up to pace. “That makes it even more imperative for us to handle him quickly. I can’t lose you, too. And not like this, fucking hell.”

He missed the look of devotion that flickered over Sherlock’s face, but he did notice the lingering amusement that graced it when he added, “Plus, if you died, Mycroft would string Moran and I up by our intestines.”

“Mycroft doing that very thing to Moran or something similar, with your help should this go awry, are the primary components of plans C through J. It is his job to bring in the cavalry, as it has always been.”

John laughed semi-hysterically, but he stopped when he heard Sherlock say his name. There was something in the way he always said it that he tried not to think about too closely, but it made his heart swell and grow warm in his chest and his breath catch just a tiny bit every time. It was addicting, truthfully, and he couldn’t help feeling selfishly grateful that Sherlock liked to say his name so often.

“What?”

Hesitantly, Sherlock said, “I want you to know a couple of things. One is that, with you at my side, I firmly believe that this operation will go smoothly and lessen the danger for me somewhat. The second is that I have no intention to leave you alone ever again. The times in which I have had to before have enlightened me, and the idea of being without my blogger fills me with revulsion.”

Dead silence. Sherlock could even hear crickets chirping.

“Just the two of us against the rest of the world, eh?” John finally said, a bit choked up.

“Always.”

“Well then,” John said, taking a fortifying breath. It wasn’t every day your best friend made such a promise, generally, but it did seem to be happening more often. “Would you say we’re ready to become the East Wind and blow this unworthy fucker off the planet?”

“Let’s.” Sherlock’s smile was white, sharp, and a little bit frightening, and John returned it with an equally unsettling grin of his own.

* * *

Sebastian Moran strolled over to the deerstalker lying almost in the gutter and squinted at it in the dim light of the sunset. “Is this really one of his?” He asked softly. “Did he honestly leave this here for me to find, as an interim gift in place of his ubiquitous presence?”

He kept walking forward, the deerstalker held loosely in his hands, and leaned against the nearest wall that looked the least grimy to take a closer look at the hat. Sebastian inspected it closely, even bringing it up to his nose to inhale a deep whiff of it.

“It’s not his,” he groaned. The hat didn’t have any signs of wear and tear on it, it felt far too cheap, and it didn’t smell like the expensive hair products he would have expected Sherlock to use, given that messy head of curls.

“It is odd that there was this hat over here, though… and while it could be random, the fact of its appearance when I’m on the hunt for the very detective that wears this hat seems suspiciously like a coincidence. And what do we say about coincidence, Jim?”

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

“Mmm. Quite.”

Well, he decided, at the very least, this had the potential to be interesting. He dropped the hat back on the ground and walked on, his pace quicker than it had been before. The next thing he saw was on the opposite side of the little street and was fluttering about in the breeze, its pages flapping loudly in the quiet. He picked it up gingerly and clutched it tightly to his chest once he saw what, or rather who, the front pages were trumpeting about. It was his deceased husband. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the clenching of his heart or the low moan of despair that escaped his mouth.

“How dare he!?” He screamed to the sky. “How dare he have the bloody _nerve_ to taunt me like this? I swear he wants to die violently! Which is good for me, excellent in fact,” he breathed out, calming down a smidge. He was never completely calm, really. “This is fantastic.”

Sebastian dropped the newspaper regretfully and jogged forward to see his next treat. He was on his way past an apartment building when he heard the quiet sound of a projector being turned on, and when he paused and actually looked at the building, he saw Anzhelika Anfisa’s face broadcast several stories high for the world to see. It appeared to be wedding photo, and she looked happy, mostly. Her eyes were cold and didn’t match the smile on her lips.

“You were such a filthy girl, Anzhelika,” he drawled. “In every imaginable way. John Watson should be fucking grateful that I rid him of you. Somehow, I doubt he is. What a shame.”

By now, he knew damn well that he was walking into a trap, and he dropped all pretenses.

“Isn’t that right, boys? You’re mad that I stole the time you had with that lying whore away, and now you want me dead for it! Didn’t any of you pay attention to history in school? Wars started over women are _so_ dull. Don’t be like that,” he clucked disapprovingly, blowing the dead woman a kiss.

When he rounded the corner, he finally found what he was looking for: William Scott Sherlock Holmes, leaning nonchalantly against a wall.

* * *

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock grunted.

Moran gasped, mock affronted. “After all of this time, and that’s how you greet me! We’ve been chasing each other for years, darling. You could afford to be polite for once in your life.”

“Don’t feel like it,” Sherlock sing-songed, pushing himself up from the wall.

John had told him, vaguely, what he remembered about Moran, but the man himself defied reality. In looks, he was every bit the opposite of Moriarty, with messy blond hair, icy blue eyes, defined musculature, about half a foot more in height, and then there was the total lack of pretending he was anything but what he was. This man was a true psychopath, a serial killer, and a madman. There would be no use in trying to flame a spark of rationality back to life; any trace of that was long, long gone. He sneered.

Moran tutted. “Oh sweetheart, you’re so much prettier when you smile.”

Sherlock ignored that, naturally, and tried very hard to disguise his shudder of revulsion as an attempt to correct his posture. Sadly, he didn’t quite succeed, and Moran’s smirk grew wider. Sherlock didn’t know how John had managed to stay in the same platoon with this man for more than a day; while Magnusson had been disgusting because of his antics and dead fish eyes, this maniac had apparently mastered the trick to raping people with his eyes. It was vile.

“What did you think of my gifts?”

“I enjoyed them very much. Except for the newspaper with Jim, of course. That was unexpectedly cruel of you,” Moran said, pouting like a child.

“If you don’t think I’m capable of cruelty, then you don’t know me very well. I have to say I’m disappointed, Sebastian.”

“That’s right. Jim did tell me that you claimed, in a rather grandiose fashion, that you didn’t have a heart. He knew you were wrong, of course. And he was always right. Because your heart is right around here, isn’t he, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and Moran cut him off before he could utter a syllable. “Ah, ah, ah, don’t even bother trying to deny it. John is here, Jim burned the hearts out of you both, and I had very enjoyable intercourse with your best friend’s wife before I laid her to rest. These are truths, Sherlock. Once brought into the light, they can never be veiled again.”

A muffled shout and sounds of gunfire drew both their attentions to the higher stories in the buildings around them. It sounded remarkably like someone was frantically trying to say “Vatican Cameos” a few buildings down and Sherlock stiffened _._

In short order, the gunfire and shouting ceased. Sherlock knew that John and the agents he’d borrowed from Mycroft were all down, and also that Moran’s agents had already melted away. It was Moran's smirk that did it. Maniacal. Unhinged. And far, far too satisfied with the situation. 

“Just the two of us now, Sherlock. However will you cope without your toy soldiers? Who will save you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is entirely possible that I enjoy writing Sebastian Moran's character waaaaay too much. Possibly. Let me know what y'all think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran was surprised from his rage for a moment, and then his face settled back into its customary angry lines. “He’s not dead,” he said cuttingly. “That would remove all the fun. He’s just bruised up a bit and tranquilized. Executive orders!” He sang, pointing to himself.
> 
> “Well, this has been a delight. Very nice to meet you at last. But playtime is over now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, folks. So it gets pretty dark here. I'll put the warnings in the end notes.

_"There's an albatross around your neck,_

_All the things you've said,_

_And the things you've done,_

_Can you carry it with no regrets,_

_Can you stand the person you've become,_

_Ooh there's a light,_

_Ooh there's a light_

_Your Albatross,_

_let it go,_

_let it go,_

_Your albatross shoot it down,_

_shoot it down_

_When you just can't shake_

_The heavy weight of living..."_

_\--Bastille, The Weight of Living, Pt. I_

 

“I don’t need anyone to ‘save’ me,” Sherlock growled. “I can save myself.”

Moran laughed. It was chilling and there was no soul to be found in it, and it took every ounce of fortitude in Sherlock not to flinch backwards.

“With that revolver in your coat?” he said, still chuckling. “Have you ever even learned how to use one of those properly? They’re dangerous, you know. They kill people,” Moran stage whispered.

“Oh, I am quite aware of that. Do you know who else knew that fact, and intimately? A close associate for the both of us,” Sherlock taunted. He knew it was unwise, but Moran made it so easy. “Actually, I think it was your husband. He shot his own brains out. And you saw that, didn’t you? How did that make you feel?”

“Like I’m going to make you pay for every sin you’ve ever committed with all the cells in the body screaming in agony and you wanting more badly than you have ever done in your fucking miserable life to die!” Moran yelled, his mask of composure fading away.

“How dreadfully mundane,” Sherlock replied, his face a moue of distaste. He pulled the gun out from the back of his trousers, switched off the safety, and pointed it at Moran. “In the spirit of fairness, you should know that if John Watson is dead, then I will make the rest of your short existence hell on earth,” he said calmly. But his heart was thundering in his chest, and he had to keep his hands from shaking.

Moran was surprised from his rage for a moment, and then his face settled back into its customary angry lines. “He’s not dead,” he said cuttingly. “That would remove all the fun. He’s just bruised up a bit and tranquilized. Executive orders!” He sang, pointing to himself.

“Well, this has been a delight. Very nice to meet you at last. But playtime is over now.”

“Go ahead! Shoot me!”

“As you wish,” said Sherlock, his face unchanging. And he shot Moran in the left shoulder. Fair was fair, after all.

His body jerked backwards, and he went stumbling down onto the pavement. Sherlock advanced on him, his face cold and posture stiff. He stepped into the vee of Moran’s spread legs and looked down. Somewhat surprisingly and yet not all, he was laughing hysterically through the tears of pain leaking uncontrolled from his eyes.

“Oh ho ho! I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Moran gasped out. “But you’re entirely right,” he said, his face morphing from laughter and pain to cold calculation faster than Sherlock could blink. “Playtime _is_ over now.”

And he squeezed his legs around Sherlock, bringing the other man forcefully to the ground. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t drop the gun, but when he tried to aim it at Moran, he was still so woozy from the landing that he couldn’t quite do it properly. Moran didn’t take it from him, but he did stand up and kick Sherlock hard in the side of the head, and he winced at the feeling of warm blood trickling down his temple.

But he recovered quickly and stood again, his balance slightly unsteady. He wasted no time in pointing the gun at Moran and firing again, this time hitting him in the right kneecap. Moran didn’t cry out, but he did go down to one knee and wince. Then he took a deep breath, and from his crouch, launched himself up and tackled Sherlock back down to the ground. Sherlock did drop the gun this time, and couldn’t stop himself from letting out a pained _“Oof”_ as the gravel dug into his backside.

Moran was grinning now, a wild grin that claimed with every yellow tooth that he was in control and he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

“Jim was right! Playing with you is fun! But you two never got so physical, did you? He reserved that for me,” he said, preening.

“If you think I want to know anything about your depraved sex life with your dead lover, then you are going to be mightily disappointed,” Sherlock got out from his clenched teeth. “Why does it always come back to sex with you people?”

Moran answered his question with a question while sitting on Sherlock’s midsection. “Yes, the dearly departed Ms. Adler mentioned something about that once, didn’t she? What was it again?”

Sherlock turned his head to the side and remembered _._

“I’m sure you know. But that’s not important, is it?”

Moran rummaged in his jacket coat and brought out a syringe. He held it aloft triumphantly and Sherlock eyed him gingerly, his vivid imagination supplying him with far too much information about what could be in the vial. He decided that the situation was getting out of hand, and bucked upwards, hoping to get Moran off of his body. But Moran put a strong hand down, and then he casually plucked a knife from another pocket in his coat and slipped it underneath Sherlock’s ribs and back out.

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from moaning in pain, and from the black spots winking in and out across his vision he knew it was only minutes before he passed out from the blood loss.

“Good! You’re blacking out,” Moran’s voice was vicious with satisfaction. “But, just to be sure—“ and he injected the tranquilizer into Sherlock’s neck. He was out in less than half a minute, and Moran took a second to clap in mad glee before he called his henchmen to help him drag Sherlock to his lair.

* * *

John arose from unconsciousness slowly. His head was killing him, and as he sat up his brain took a minute to connect and start firing messages across his synapses again. And then it all came back to him in a snap, and he muttered, “Shit, shit, shit, Sherlock please tell me you managed it. Please.” But he had a horrible feeling that wasn’t the case, and when he crossed over to look out the window, his worst nightmare had come true. He found the stairwell and ran down it as fast as he could to see if he could get any clues.

However, Sherlock and Moran were gone, and all they’d left behind were Sherlock’s gun, bloodstains, and an empty syringe. He picked it up with a feeling of dread and sniffed the needle; the syringe had held a powerful tranquilizer, and while he knew that with Sherlock’s past drug abuse it would probably pass through his system quickly, he was concerned nevertheless. They were long gone, and it was time to bring in the backup. He called Greg first.

“Hello?”

“Greg, I need your help.”

“John, what’s wrong? Are you injured? What’s going on?”

“Sherlock’s been kidnapped by a psychopath and we need to find him as quickly as possible.”

“Shit, really? Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

“You. Bring a gun. And call Mycroft, would you? We’re going to need his help.”

“…Why do I need to be the one to call Mycroft?”

“He likes you better. Just do it.”

* * *

John hung up on him, and Greg looked at his phone in total shock for over a minute. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose and called Mycroft.

“Detective Inspector, while it is always good to hear your voice, if you would meet Dr. Watson, my team, and myself at Sherlock’s last known location as soon as you can I believe that would be the most prudent course of action.”

That made Greg chuckle halfheartedly, and then he picked up his gun and bulletproof vest and ran full pelt out of Scotland Yard, texting John once he got into his car to find out his location.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up again, he was in a completely unfamiliar place. He was chained to a chair and he had an opaque blindfold around his eyes, but he didn’t startle; he made sure to keep his breathing steady to make Moran think he was still unconscious. Unfortunately, that didn’t work for very long, because the tranquilizer wore off quickly and his stab wound made itself painfully, obviously known and he couldn’t stop his teeth from clenching.

Then his blindfold was unceremoniously ripped from his head, and there was Sebastian Moran, grinning in his homicidal, bloodthirsty way with cigar-stained yellow teeth about half a foot from his face. He would have recoiled if he had the ability; the man’s breath stunk like a disgusting creature had crawled inside his mouth, made a home, died, and decayed in there.

“I recognize that you’ve been looking forward to this for quite a long time, but you missed an important step,” Sherlock croaked out.

“No. I really didn’t. But you’re the consulting detective, so why don’t you tell me anyway?”

“You didn’t brush your teeth.”

Moran smacked him casually across the face and smirked. “Aren’t you feisty? I like that. All the better to break you.”

“I’m not some stallion you can castrate into compliancy. That won’t work on me.”

“Well, _that_ is an idea! That wasn't on the menu for today, but I just might make it dessert.”

And Moran’s smile turned back up to maximum, and he ran across the room, giving Sherlock his first proper chance to examine the place. Given that he had been expecting the worst, and that was saying something, the horrible fact that this room pretty much met that impossible standard exactly didn’t mean anything good.

For one thing, it was blindingly apparent that this chamber used to be a sex dungeon. There was still a sex swing in the corner, he could see massive dildos in another corner, and there was a whip coiled up neatly on top of a stone slab. Sherlock was relatively sure that Moran didn’t want to rape him, but then again the man was so unstable that the situation could change at the drop of a feather.

Honestly, he barely noticed the various bloodstains, strong stench of fear and urine, and the fact that the air tasted of sulfur. No, what really alarmed him were the dirty torture instruments, the syringes and white powders that Moran was working with, and the vase of fresh pink roses perched on a little wooden table most of all.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you to keep your tools clean?”

Moran snorted without turning around, “You sound just like Anzhelika.”

“You should have listened.”

Sherlock would have tried to escape his chair, but he was in chains and the chair was metal, so he knew that it would hurt him more than it helped; when he glanced down he saw that the chair was even bolted to the floor. There was nothing he could do.

Then Moran sallied back across the floor, holding a syringe with a dirty needle and a familiar-looking solution in it.

“Did you know that your eyes dilated when you saw this? Tsk, tsk, Sherlock, you’ll never solve anything when you’re so high your mind isn’t online anymore. For shame.”

He found a vein with relative ease and injected him with the solution. Sherlock gasped as the drug hit his system and his brain registered the pain of such an unwilling injection administered by a rusty needle.

“Cocaine? 9 percent solution?” He got out, barely. “I would say you’ve done your research, but you clearly haven’t.”

Moran mock gasped, clapping his hands over his mouth and neglectfully letting the syringe fall to the stone floor.

“Well, sweetie, that’s what happens when one is an ordinary smart person and not you, your brother, or Jim. Research is vital. And I know you prefer a 7 percent solution, but I really wanted to see the poison burn you from the inside out.”

“Are you trying to elicit empathy from me? I wouldn’t. High-functioning sociopath and all.”

“It is remarkable that you are still coherent,” Moran mused wonderingly. “This would knock nearly anyone else right out. But I knew this is how your body would process the drug. I’ve seen your records.”

“So you did do your research. Congratu-fucking-lations.”

“Hold on… you thought that cocaine burning you from the inside out was me trying to elicit your empathy? _You_ : the man who claims he doesn’t have a heart. Understand this, Sherlock Holmes. The one and only thing I am eliciting from you is your slow, painful demise. I will extract it from you like water from a cactus. I will drain you dry,” he finished in a hiss.

“And then what?”

Sherlock stared at Moran in the silence, watched the broken man see his purpose fulfilled with nothing after it, and deduced.

“It’s obvious that you desire the sweet embrace of eternal sleep yourself. This mission you’re on to destroy me utterly is the last purpose you have left in life. Maybe you want to go after my brother too, but I sincerely doubt you have the will to see that through, and Mycroft is very hard to kill. I knew it immediately when I first met you. It was all in the hygiene, or rather your lack of it. I may not have known Moriarty long, but I knew him well enough for his obsessive need for neatness to make an impression. It was all in the Westwood, if one disregarded the copious amounts of hair gel. There is no possible way that a man like that could be married to a man like you, or the shriveled shell you have become. Your deterioration began the moment you watched him eat a bullet, and it has since progressed to this point.”

Moran stared at Sherlock, slack-jawed.

“You repulse me more than any criminal I have ever met,” Sherlock stated coolly. “And it would do you and I far better for you to simply kill yourself, which is what you really want deep in that desiccated _thing_ you might call a heart, because you know even better than I that if James Moriarty saw you now, he would detest you. You’re pathetic.”

Moran’s face had gone through a series of emotions and colors during Sherlock’s speech, and now it was pale and set in a way that worried Sherlock. _Sorry, John,_ he thought somberly. _You always said I could talk someone to death, but I’m afraid that in this case that someone will be me._

He hung his head and waited.

* * *

“How the fuck are we supposed to find him?” John said, his patience fraying. “Moran is sure to have taken his phone away and destroyed it, so we can’t track him by GPS, and there’s nothing else on him that we can track him by.”

Mycroft and Anthea looked at each other and smirked. “About that, Dr. Watson. We do in fact have the ability to find him, wherever he is.”

“And what would that be?” Lestrade asked, his suspicions rousing.

“No need to be so suspicious, Detective Inspector. It’s not illegal. I simply took the liberty of injecting him with some Smart Blood.”

“What the bloody hell is that?”

“Microscopic nanotechnology that flows through his blood, can’t be removed, and allows us to find my erstwhile brother no matter where he might end up.”

John and Greg gaped.

“That sounds like something straight out of a Bond film,” John whispered incredulously. “Don’t tell me you’re M, Mycroft.”

“Oh, no. Certainly not. But the creation of this marvelous technology doesn’t belong to me. That belongs to the youngest one, who may or may not be in the employ of MI6.”

“Youngest… one?”

"MI6?"

“I said nothing. Now let’s find my brother before he tips the madman firmly into the territory of rabid, and end this messy business for good. I do so despise legwork,” he sighed. “Anthea, if you would?”

“Of course, sir,” and then they were off.

* * *

Moran looked furious. He stalked over to his neat table full of dirty tools, and selected one that looked wickedly sharp; Sherlock watched him with dilated eyes and hoped distantly that being sliced or stabbed with it wouldn’t hurt as much as he thought it might. He had a very high pain tolerance, after all, but he was drugged now and injured besides, so he thought it best to simply bear down and prepare to scream as much as possible before his voice gave out.

Once upon a time, someone—he couldn’t remember who—had told him that there was no shame to be had in screaming under torture. He’d dismissed it initially. How would wasting your energy in pointless yelling be helpful in any way? But that was before he’d actually been tortured, of course. He knew better now.

When Moran walked back towards him, he made himself become as boneless as he could, considering that he was wrapped in chains from neck to ankle. Moran cut his first dispassionate slice across his naked collarbone and followed it with a quick stab to his bicep and then a deeper slice onto his bare shin; after ghosting above his silk boxers, he carved a final x into the skin below his left pectoral and walked away smiling to put the tool back.

Sherlock had yelled a little bit when Moran had stabbed him and then carved into his skin, which had surprised his torturer:

“I hadn’t thought you’d be a screamer.”

When he’d just given him his best murderous glare, Moran smiled at him saccharine sweet and dumped a bucket of freezing water over his head. While he’d sputtered and attempted to get his hair out of his eyes, Moran had been busy unlocking his chains. Then he was shoved down onto the stone slab in the middle of the room and spread eagled flat on his back with ropes tying him down at his wrists and ankles. Moran injected him with something he thought was meth, because it had the misfortune of bringing him back to his unfortunate reality, and then he set the slab to spinning.

“This is where it gets tremendously fun, Sherlock. This is where you start to _really_ pay for your crimes against me and mine. You’ve explicitly deduced that I am nothing without my Jim and also that I must be suicidal. You were right.”

Sherlock tried to interrupt him to reasonably explain that Jim Moriarty had been perfectly capable of making his own decisions, thank you, but the combinations of the drugs and his revolving state made that nearly impossible, and Moran was in full flow, cracking the whip he’d snatched up from the table absentmindedly. Sherlock was becoming nauseated, but held it back with the remainder of his willpower.

“Of course I’m nothing without him! You have a soul mate of your own; you should understand this! The day he died was the worst day of my life. My heart was ripped away from me and my soul died. And it was all because of you!”

The whip snapped against Sherlock’s body, hitting him against the stab wound below his ribs. He cried out, his body arching up.

“All this pain! All this misery! It’s all your fault!”

The next place the whip hit him was across his thighs. That hurt a bit less, and the only sound that escaped him was a grunt. He couldn’t help thinking that this man was totally fucking insane, and he prayed that John and the rest of the cavalry would find him soon.

“If it wasn’t for you, we could have had an entire lifetime together. But no, he had to go and become infatuated with the glorious mind of Sherlock bloody Holmes! And then he got _bored_. Boredom is the worst thing in the world for you blasted geniuses, isn’t it? He couldn’t handle it anymore! He thought you were the greatest challenge, and then you disappointed him and nothing was worthwhile anymore! Not even me!”

It looked as though the whip was going to land on his face, and then Moran dropped it when the metal door to the chamber was suddenly blasted off of its hinges.

* * *

Three of Mycroft’s team took Moran down in less than a minute when they busted in, but John was focused on getting to Sherlock. He found the mechanism to stop the table from spinning quickly and then hacked through the ropes with the nearest sharp object he could find, desperately hoping that when he actually looked at Sherlock that he wouldn’t be in as bad of a shape as he thought.

Finally, Sherlock was free, and John helped him to sit upright. Then, and only then, did he take the opportunity to assess him properly. Sherlock let him do it without fussing, which was alarming enough, but the numerous stab wounds, marks from the whips, and insanely dilated eyes worried him more. For a moment, he was consumed with rage: at himself, for letting this happen; at Moran, for torturing his best friend so badly; even at Sherlock, for not planning this event well enough.

He was pulled unexpectedly from his rage when Sherlock’s cool hand cupped his cheek. He was sweating and bleeding and his breathing sounded rattled, but he was still the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. _He’s alive he’ll be ok there’s still time_ ran on a loop through his head, and overcome with too many emotions to name, he inclined his head slightly to the side and lightly kissed Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock dropped his hand, stunned, but he was gazing at John like he was staring straight at the sun, eyes watering and all.

“John Watson,” he said warmly. “I have never been so glad to see you.”

Their bubble was rudely broken by the arrival of one Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade and the others were walking around and examining the scene, and occasionally they muttered obscenities under their breaths when they found anything particularly horrifying. There was a lot of muttering.

“Well, Sherlock?”

“9 percent cocaine solution and an unknown solution that I believe may have been methamphetamine.”

"Jesus," Mycroft muttered, looking ill.

"And clearly not administered with a clean needle," John said. "Oh, I'm going to fucking kill him."

"John, don't! Remember the plan," he beseeched. John cracked his knuckles and raised an eyebrow.

"Fuck the plan! Look at what he did to you!"

"I know damn well every single thing he did to me. John, _remember the plan_." 

Dilated, bloodshot eyes met stormy cobalt ones and held.

* * *

 _Was this it?_ The rest of them wondered. _It has to be_. The moment they'd all been waiting for. For a minute, as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stared into each other's eyes for perhaps the thousandth time (likely more), the world seemed to come to a gentle halt.  

And then Sherlock leaned forward to rest his head on John's shoulder, breaking their eye contact, and John petted his hair.

The earth started to revolve again.

* * *

 “Thank you for finding me,” Sherlock continued quietly. “The situation was getting far too out of my control, and I am afraid that I was going to be in for it very shortly.”

“Always, brother mine.”

Sherlock abruptly went pale as the pain from his injuries reasserted itself and he started to shiver.

“We need to get him to hospital immediately,” John stated authoritatively.

“In a little while, John. Where’s Moran?”

“He’s in that duffle bag over there,” Greg said, joining the conversation.

“Alive?”

“Unfortunately. Why?”

“There’s something he needs very badly to understand.”

* * *

Sebastian wasn't surprised when they unzipped his duffle and shoved his head out into the light, where the steadily clearing eyes of the younger Holmes immediately captured his own. Jim had mentioned it once when he was talking about something he’d overheard between Irene Adler and Watson _._

“Sebastian,” he started off calmly. “You’re an imbecile and totally psychotic to boot, so I’ll make this quick. And don’t you dare try to interrupt me or I’ll shoot you myself, and I promise you that it would be fatal.”

The man with the silver hair and Watson snorted in unison.

“I realize that your equally psychotic husband committed suicide in front of you with no warning, and that you have been driven mad with grief. It’s understandable. But, though the life you have left may soon be cut mercifully short, you need to come to terms with his final decision. Yes, I was a part of his choice. But the ultimate blame for his actions was Jim Moriarty himself, and if you can’t learn that, then I pity you. Fuck you, and good day.”

Sebastian nodded, crying silently, and his bag was zipped back shut.

The room was dead silent, until Greg ventured, “Sherlock, was that sympathy I just heard from you?”

“Stockholm Syndrome,” one of Mycroft’s men whispered. Anthea glared, and they cowered.

“He’s about to be shipped off to Russia so the remains of an old mafia family can finally have some retribution in whatever bloodthirsty way they see fit,” Sherlock said dryly. “Not as sympathetic as you think.”

The bag containing Moran started wriggling, and there was muffled shouting coming from the interior until Sherlock sighed and kicked the bag hard, where it went reluctantly still.

“High-functioning sociopath,” was all Sherlock explained, and then he finally let the darkness take him. The last thing he felt as he closed his eyes was the warmness of John stumbling a bit before he caught him and held him close.

_Safe at last._

* * *

Sherlock’s phone let out a wholly inappropriate moan the next day, luckily on one of the rare occasions John had left his hospital room. He smirked and picked it up.

_This is a delightful present. Does it need to be in one piece when it reaches its destination? IA_

_Rough it up as much as you like. Just don’t kill the contents. SH_

_I can work with that. IA_

She texted him again later.

_He didn't know I was alive. Can you believe that? IA_

_I imagine that was remedied rather quickly. SH_

_Oh, but of course. IA_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sherlock is tortured by Moran-- not for long and not terribly graphically, I think, but if y'all think I need any new tags, let me know.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s brain ground to an abrupt halt, and after clearing his throat a few times, he asked weakly, “You think Sherlock’s gay?”
> 
> Greg side-eyed him, looking like he doubted whether John’s brain was working properly. “Yes, of course,” he said slowly. “I have to admit that when I first met him, I thought he may have been asexual, or aromantic, or something along those lines. But then that changed—“
> 
> His breath caught in his throat when he saw the bright hope on John’s face, and although he hadn’t been planning to continue, he did; if someone had to make these two morons see the truth, he’d do it gladly: “When he met you,” he finished in a quiet rush. “He’s never been the same. Surely… surely you’ve noticed? You must know,” Greg pleaded.

_"Every word's a new regret if you say it right, right_

_Every wound can be forgotten in the right light_

_Oh nostalgia, I don't need you anymore_

_Cause the Saturdays are over and the beat is at my door_

_Cause they might try to tell you how you can live your life_

_But don't, don't forget it's your right, to do whatever you like, you like_

_Cause you could be your own spotlight, e-o, e-o_

_You could be your own spotlight, e-o, e-o_

_You could be your own spotlight, you could be the star, you can shine so bright, e-o, e-o..."_

_\--Patrick Stump, Spotlight (Oh Nostalgia)_

 

_It’s done. MH_

_Excellent. SH_

_If you ever even think about doing something so stupid and suicidal again, I will be very displeased with you. And so will the other one. I know you care far more about what he thinks of you than I. MH_

_Understood. SH_

* * *

**A month and a half later…**

John wandered into a pub by Scotland Yard, hoping he’d find Greg there. He’d left Alara with Janine, who had taken a shine to her and didn’t mind watching over his flame-haired child for the night. Thankfully, he was lucky this evening and he spotted him quickly at a table in the corner, looking decidedly remorseful.

“Hey, Greg. How are things?”

“Not so good,” he grumbled.

“Why’s that?”

“You know those five bodies we found piled in that madman’s closet about a month ago?”

“Yeah.”

“My supervisor’s pissed that we don’t have a perpetrator to show for it. The media’s been ripping us to shreds.”

“Did you explain what happened to him?” John couldn’t resist the defensive stance and scowl he fell into automatically, no more than Greg’s mouth could resist the urge to tick up a little on one side.

“As much as I could. It wasn’t enough.”

John had opened his mouth to give Greg advice when he held up a warning hand.

“I know, I know. I should just call Mycroft. But—“

“But what?”

Greg looked supremely uncomfortable, and John thought he knew why.

“He’s been courting you even more now that your divorce has been finalized, hasn’t he?”

“Yes!” Greg burst out. “Everywhere I turn, there are flowers and gift cards and conveniently placed cars! I haven’t had to pay my mortgage in three months! My team thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world,” he grouched.

John couldn’t keep himself from laughing. “Is it _that_ bad?” He was gasping for air.

“Not when you’re in love with the morgue attendant, goddammit!”

“… I had wondered. Do you think she feels the same way about you?”

Greg groaned, sounding utterly wretched. John winced.

“How am I supposed to know? In case you haven’t noticed, she has terrible taste in men. They’re always gay.”

John’s brain ground to an abrupt halt, and after clearing his throat a few times, he asked weakly, “You think Sherlock’s gay?”

Greg side-eyed him, looking like he doubted whether John’s brain was working properly. “Yes, of course,” he said slowly. “I have to admit that when I first met him, I thought he may have been asexual, or aromantic, or something along those lines. But then that changed—“

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the bright hope on John’s face, and although he hadn’t been planning to continue, he did; if someone had to make these two morons see the truth, he’d do it gladly: “When he met you,” he finished in a quiet rush. “He’s never been the same. Surely… surely you’ve noticed? You _must_ know,” Greg pleaded.

“I wondered. I hoped. But he ‘died’! And then there was Mary,” John said, looking shell-shocked.

“Not to be rude, mate, but now there’s not. The only question is, how do you feel about him? His heart has been in your hands for several years now, and you haven’t always treated it kindly.”

“I know,” said John, ashamed.

“To be fair, he hasn’t always treated yours with the best of care either,” mused Greg. “If I didn’t know that the two of you loved each other more than anything else in the entire universe, I might even have constituted your relationship as abusive a time or two.”

“I do love him,” John admitted to the tabletop, out loud for the first time. “But I also hate him sometimes? He can be really, truly dreadful.”

Greg snorted. “Trust me, I know. But, mate, you need to tell him. Before something else comes along and separates the two of you again and you don’t get the chance.”

When John seemed hesitant, he asked, “Have you ever been with a man before?”

John swallowed and confessed, “Well, no. I have been attracted to men before though. I just never acted on it.”

“So all that time you said you weren’t gay…?”

“I’m not. That was the truth. I’m bisexual.”

Sensing that John was growing uncomfortable, Greg slapped him on the back in the manliest fashion he could. “Tell you what,” he said. “If I buy you two a bottle of scotch and you promise to tell him how you really feel, I’ll own up to Mycroft that I’m not interested and I’ll finally make a move on Molly. Deal?”

“Can I get more than just the one bottle?” John asked, his head on the sticky table.

“No way. You two are lightweights. This is simply to smooth the conversation,” Greg snorted. But then he became more serious. “John. Did he ever tell you why fell from that thrice-damned roof?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“I don’t know. He was pretty evasive.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice then?” He said, getting up from the table to go get the scotch.

John gestured for him to go ahead, his whole body conveying _in for a penny, in for a pound._

“Start with that,” Greg said, leaving John to ponder his cryptic counsel. He was back shortly with the scotch, which he pressed firmly into John’s hands.

John got up to leave, looking hopeful. “Thank you, Greg,” he said gruffly. “Good luck!”

Greg watched him leave and shook his head, muttering, “Same to you. Not that you need it,” and downed his whiskey in one gulp.

* * *

It was only a short while later when Sherlock Holmes burst dramatically into the pub and beelined straight for him.

“Not you too,” Greg protested.

“What’s that—oh. John was with you,” he said, looking pleased. Greg didn’t see any reason to lie. Sherlock would know anyway. “Yes, he was. He needed some help from a friend.”

Sherlock plopped down on the seat John had recently vacated and stuck his bottom lip out. “Not from me, though.”

“Christ, you two are hopeless, aren’t you? Go home, Sherlock. Go tell the love of your life that you’re bloody in love with him. And for God’s sake, don’t fuck it up.”

Sherlock was struck speechless, but he recovered well. The faint blush on his face was the only sign of his embarrassment, and he tugged on his scarf to try to hide it. “Are you ever going to tell Mycroft that you don’t love him?” He sniped back. “Mother found out somehow, and she’s overjoyed. She thought he’d be alone forever; even Father is pleased for him.”

“Yes,” Greg groused. “I promised John this already.”

“And what of Ms. Hooper?”

“What _about_ her?”

“She’s obviously infatuated with you, and you with her. Are you going to make an honest woman out of her or not?”

“I’m going to try,” Greg said, sounding determined even though it was his turn to have his face flat down on the table.

“Good,” Sherlock said, satisfied. “She deserves someone decent.”

Greg looked up. “I appreciate that you recognize that for her, especially since it’s you, but why are you still here?”

But Sherlock looked abashed and tentative, and it was so unlike him that a sympathetic string of Greg’s heart shuddered. Sherlock was _never_ tentative. Hesitancy didn’t fit on a face like that; his usual cold or even the most smartarse of expressions looked far better.

“Are you sure he feels the same?”

“Just talk to him,” Greg moaned.

“I don’t know how! I’ve never done this before!”

“Have you heard of Truth or Dare?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “It’s a silly, mindless game for children. Do you really think that would do any good?”

“Given that you two are acting like children and do regularly, I think it would be perfect. Now go already, you’re giving me a bloody headache.”

“Hmm, that could actually work rather well. The informality and playful game structure may make it easier for us to talk about our feelings openly.” He paused before he left, and said, “Thank you, Greg. I’m going to make him happy if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Amazingly, I believe you,” said Greg in the stillness once Sherlock had blown out again. Wait… Sherlock had used his actual name? That was it; the world was ending.

“Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes,” he murmured. His phone pinged in his hand when he turned it on, and he checked his messages curiously; the newest one was from an unknown number, and his countenance was wary as he opened it.

_Do try to be gentle when you break my employer’s heart, Detective Inspector. A_

_I’ll do my best. GL_

_See that you do. It will be my job to get him back in working condition, after all. A_

_He’s Mycroft. I’m sure he’ll recover quickly enough. GL_

_He doesn’t form attachments like this often, as I’m sure you already know. That may not be the case. A_

_I promise I won’t go meanly stomping all over his heart, alright? I’ll be kind and let him down gently. GL_

_Make sure to do it face to face. A_

_Fine. GL_

_I’ve arranged lunch for you two tomorrow at noon. Don’t be late. A_

Greg rolled his eyes. He knew how Mycroft felt about punctuality. The other man may have been fond of him, but there was still no leniency in that regard; he’d be on time, or so help him.

* * *

Sherlock got back to Baker Street in short order, and couldn’t help the fond smile on his face when he saw that the door knocker was off to the side and he knew that he’d left it hanging straight earlier. That meant John was here already, and in a good mood.

It didn’t happen often, but he was suddenly struck with self-doubt, dumbly staring at his own damn door. Despite Lestrade’s reassurances, there was no guarantee here. If he laid his heart out in front of John and explained everything to him, then the implicit fact that John had owned his heart practically from the start became explicit information and left him incredibly vulnerable. That was terrifying, and he gulped. He’d been called more versions of cocky and too self-assured for his own good in dozens of languages, but his current predicament left all of that in the dust.

He could only conclude that this was more important than any of those other situations, and he felt himself slowly succumb to the pressure. This would change the course of the rest of his life. He had to deal with this carefully, and as as he’d often been accused of having some kind of psychic voodoo, the outcome of this was murky and he didn’t like that one bit.

Sherlock Holmes glared holes into the wood of his door and honestly considered not even going inside.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock deliberating on the pavement in front of their door and heaved a much put-upon sigh. She’d left John in 221B, looking brightly anticipating and a little apprehensive, to come down to Speedy’s to get a snack, and this was really too much. When John had thundered past her up to the stairs with that expression on his face and a bottle of scotch in hand, she’d been so hopeful. This was it! Finally, the world could be made right.

And God help her, she would be _damned_ if Sherlock Holmes fucked it up. She slammed out of Speedy’s as much as she was able with her hip and all and grabbed him by the arm.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Sherlock Holmes, you get in there right bloody now and sort this out before you break that poor man’s heart again because you were too much of a coward.”

“But—“

She demanded, “Am I going to need to drag you upstairs by your ear?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Then _go_!”

He held her shoulders, kissed her cheek, and said fervently, “Mrs. Hudson, you are the very best of women. Thank you,” before he took a deep breath and ran inside.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and went off to visit a friend. Her work was done for the day.

* * *

John heard the distinctive tread of Sherlock bounding up the stairs and stood. It was finally time. His best friend came in more sedately than he’d come up the stairs, but energy still emanated from every pore like he was a burning star. John would never have known he’d been tortured recently if he hadn’t been there; he had to say he envied his friend’s quick recovery time.

The two stared at each other for a while, sizing up the situation. _This was it_ , they both thought. _We’re really doing this_.

“How have you been, John?” Sherlock started.

He was still hovering by the doorway, and John was struck by how awkward this was, when they’d so rarely been awkward around each other in the whole time they’d been friends.

“I’m good. Yeah. Everything’s good.”

“How’s Alara?” Sherlock asked, before he finally took off his coat and scarf and carefully hung them up.

“Fine. Look, do you want a cup of tea?”

“Maybe later.”

There was more of that awkward silence, and then they both sat down in their respective chairs.

“Scotch then?”

“Please,” Sherlock exhaled. Lestrade’s idea, obviously.

John poured for the both of them and handed Sherlock his glass. Their hands brushed, and when John took care to linger, Sherlock looked quietly thrilled.

“Thank you.”

John nestled back into his chair, taking a slow sip of his drink. Greg had gotten them the good stuff, it seemed, and the liquor went down nice and smooth.

“Mm. This is nice. What about you? Do you feel like your old self again after Moran?”

“I’m beginning to, yes,” Sherlock said, settling back into his chair.

The chairs were angled towards one another, as usual, and their proximity was making John’s heart beat faster.

“Great.”

“Do you—“ “Are you—“ They both tried to speak at the same time, and gave up. John gestured for Sherlock to go ahead.

“This is going to sound like the most inane thing in the world, but have you ever heard of Truth or Dare?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t? I played it a lot when I was younger. It’s best with copious amounts of alcohol.”

“Good thing we have that already, then.”

John laughed, a tad incredulously. “You’re not seriously suggesting we play that now?”

Sherlock pouted. “You were perfectly willing to play a stupid game on your stag night.”

“Fine, fine!” He sighed, only mock aggrieved, and Sherlock smirked. “Do you want to go first, or me?”

“I’ll go.”

“Sounds good. Ok then, Sherlock, Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” Sherlock said.

John rubbed his chin and thought. “Hmm. I dare you… to do a handstand.”

Sherlock snorted, and when he stood up he replied lightly, “I hope you won’t be expecting me to keep doing acrobatics as the night goes on, John. The scotch would make that difficult.”

“We’ll see,” his friend said, whose eyes had gone dark and glittering at the mention of acrobatics.

Sherlock sighed, walked over to the wall, and put himself into a perfect handstand against it before stepping gracefully down again. He wasn’t even sweating, and John gaped.

“How the hell?”

“Mycroft and I were forced to take dance lessons as children, remember? I grew to love them, but he always hated them.”

He sat down again and focused the intensity of his verdigris gaze back onto his former flatmate, steepling his fingertips together. “Well, John?” He rumbled out. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” John chose after a moment of deliberation.

“Very well. Tell me all about the Watson family.”

John didn’t even blink. “You already know most of it. Harry and I were close when were children and our parents were still together, but that changed when my dad left. She started to go out and get drunk all the time with her friends, and even more when she came out to my mom. I supported her sexuality, but not the drinking. My mom didn’t like either of it. We all started fighting with each other and our family splintered even more; I found out my dad had died a couple years into university, and my mom died a year after I joined the army. I haven’t spoken to Harry since I came back from the army for the last time, when she gave me her phone after she split up with Clara. I liked Clara,” he said morosely. “She was nice. Too good for Harry, though.”

“No doubt,” Sherlock murmured. “Thank you for telling me, John.”

“More scotch?”

He wordlessly handed over his glass, and John refilled it and handed it back to him. They sipped again quietly, and then John continued the game.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

John thought about what Greg had advised him, and decided. “When you came back after those two years, and I asked you why you’d done it, you told me it was because Moriarty had to be stopped. To be clear, I still don’t care how you managed to survive; I’m just glad you did. But I’ve always thought that wasn’t the whole truth, so tell me the rest now. Please.”

Sherlock looked like he’d eaten a lemon before he glanced away from John, and his exhales were stretching the buttons on his forest green collared shirt more than usual before he replied. John wondered idly if he’d finally see some buttons fly off; he’d been waiting for that event since the day he met Sherlock.

“After all this time? Fine. Do you remember those assassins who moved in around us before the Fall?”

“I remember everything.”

“They were employed by Moriarty. He had deduced that you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were my pressure points, and he threatened to kill you all if I didn’t fall off the roof and appear to have died. All of you were in grave danger. It had to be done.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John shouted. “Why couldn’t you have just told me that to begin with?”

“It was complicated. And I didn’t want Moran to know I was still alive at the time. Especially since—“ He hesitated there.

“Especially since what?” John begged, sitting on the literal edge of his seat. “Especially since he was the one assigned to kill you if I didn’t die.”

“You were protecting me.”

“Yes. Always.” Sherlock tried not to cringe at how easily those words had come out, but soon gave in and let the embarrassment sweep over him. By agreeing to play this game, they had created an implicit contract to be totally honest with one another. He’d done the right thing; plus, it had made a smile flash across his friend’s face.

“Christ,” John murmured. That explained so much, except for one thing: “When he found out that you were still alive, how come he didn’t come after me immediately?”

“At that point, his focus had shifted to me. It’s like I explained after you and company saved me from an untimely end; after he watched his psychotic husband kill himself, he twisted it around in his head to the point where I was entirely to blame, and allowed Moriarty no freedom of choice at all.”

They sat and sipped at their drinks for a minute, but John had another question he was dying to have answered, and yet he was dreading the response at the same time.

“You want to know about Mary.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes and no.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John in response, and he couldn’t stop his automatic flush if he’d tried. He knocked back the rest of his drink and swiped Sherlock’s out of his hand when he held it out; the refill took just a minute, and then he was prepared. He took a deep breath and said, “Ok. I’m ready. Hit me.”

“I saw the files on her flash drive, and deduced the rest of what I’m about to tell you later on. The woman you knew as Mary Morstran was actually a woman named Anzhelika Anfisa, of the Russian mafia family. From what I understood, when she was in her early 20s she left the family for some reason and traveled the world. Her family scorned her, but they never seemed to consider taking her out; they considered her a traitor, but they knew she’d keep her mouth shut. Eventually she came to the attention of the CIA because of her selective skill set and genius mind, and she was recruited. She worked there for several years, but then she became bored within the bounds of the law and went freelance as an assassin. From what I could gather, she was one of the best, but she must have gotten lonely because she then assumed the perfectly ordinary persona of Mary Morstran, and then the two of you met.”

Sherlock paused there, unsure whether to continue. He took a few gulps of his drink, and saw John doing the same. John’s left hand exhibited no trace of its characteristic tremor, and he looked mildly amused when he met Sherlock’s eyes again after the quick examination.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Please keep going.”

“She was happy with you, John. She may have grown weary of the tedium at times, perhaps, but she was mostly content. But then Magnusson found out about her past and threatened her at her own wedding where she’d discovered she was pregnant, and she happily took the opportunity to go after him. You know how that turned out—“ John nodded, his hands clenched on the armrests of his chair—“and then came Moran. They’d known each other through the assassin network, and the Anfisas had been causing him trouble and he’d been going after them in return. Somehow, he acquired one of them as an assistant, but naturally lost it and then killed him, possibly as another play to destroy them. Mary found her cousin dead in an alley, and then she and Moran had a confrontation that ended with her dead. That’s the whole of it.”

John breathed quickly in and out, trying to remain calm. Sherlock admired the rise and fall of his chest under the plaid blue shirt and waited.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering… is Alara mine?”

Sherlock sat back, only a little shocked. Of course John had figured it out. “No.”

“I knew it,” John said. “I bloody _knew_ it. She looks like Mary, but she doesn’t look like me at all, or even Harry.” He rubbed his hands over his face, looking frustrated. “God, was there ever anything she didn’t lie to me about?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No. More scotch?”

“Please.”

They refilled their scotch, and John calmed down enough to slump in his chair some more. Their legs brushed together, and Sherlock struggled to keep his suddenly skyrocketing heart rate under control. John seemed so tangible like this, so accessible; Sherlock wanted to touch him all over that compact army doctor's body more than almost anything else he’d ever desired in his entire life. He breathed deeply in and out in an attempt to resist, but all that did was inundate him more thoroughly in John’s sandalwood scent, and when John closed his eyes for a minute, he gave in and moved his chair closer to him. John wound an ankle around his in response, and Sherlock _couldn’t breathe_.

“She is _your_ daughter, though, genetics be damned.” His voice was rough and gravelly, and he smirked a bit when he noticed the effect on John.

“’Course she is. She’s mine in all the important ways, and anyone who disagrees can fuck off.”

“I never thought anything less.” John grinned, showing teeth, and Sherlock recognized it as John’s silent acknowledgment of Sherlock’s unwavering faith in him. He could have sworn his heart purred in his chest.

“Did you ever like Mary?” John questioned lazily. “I think I can say that I know you better than nearly anyone else with certainty, but if you wanted to fool me badly enough, I believe you could.”

“We both tried to like each other for your sake, but on account of our mutual sociopathic and possessive tendencies, we couldn’t quite manage it.”

“Right. And I imagine that small bond was totally shattered when she shot you, and then you exposed her for the liar she was. No more play time for Mary and Sherlock.”

“Mmm,” murmured Sherlock, closing his eyes. “There’s something about dying temporarily that enlightens one to the important things, and making nice with your best friend’s murderous wife after she shoots you isn’t one of them.”

Sherlock’s earlier wish was immediately granted. John’s indolence had shattered, and his hands were both on Sherlock’s knees; he looked up at Sherlock beseechingly and pleaded, his eyes wide, desperate, begging for a denial: “ _You died_?”

Sherlock covered John’s hands with his own, deeply appreciating the warmth and pleasant tingles shooting up his arms from their points of contact. He loved it even more when John laced their calloused fingers together. “I thought you knew. Was it not on my chart?”

At some point in the future, John promised himself there would be a great deal of self-berating, because simply holding hands with Sherlock felt right in a way that went straight to his innermost core. He couldn’t even imagine what kissing him would be like, if he already felt like there was a fire starting between their palms and growing by the second. However, there were more important things to worry about at the moment. _But soon_ , he swore to himself. _Soon_.

“They wouldn’t let me see it. And before I could get it sneakily, you’d escaped, you ridiculous man.”

Sherlock laughed, a little breathlessly, and said, “I did, didn’t I?”

John squeezed his hands and nodded. His face looked a bit wan, and he asked his next question quietly, like he was hoping Sherlock would treat it as rhetorical.

“Is it bad that I’m glad she’s dead?”

“No, John. Whatever you’re feeling is valid. I can’t say I’m terribly upset she’s dead either, but my reasons are horribly selfish.”

“So are mine, really,” John sighed. The two exchanged a look of perfect understanding, and then John continued in a brighter tone, “Back to the absurd game?”

“Very well. Truth or Dare, John?” Sherlock was smirking at him, and he never could resist that particular smirk; it suited his friend’s face too well for that. “Dare,” he said challengingly.

* * *

“Excellent,” Sherlock replied. He had the perfect plan. “I dare you, John Watson, to move back into 221B Baker Street. With me.”

“Done,” John said swiftly. Sherlock raised an amused brow, but said nothing. “Truth or Dare, Sherlock?”

“Hmmmm… Truth.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“God, all the versions of you are so obsessed with that—“

“What?”

“Do you remember what I told you I’d been thinking about while I was on the plane? The two of us were on a stake out, and you were hellishly determined to pry deep into my past, particularly in that regard.”

John laughed. “Really? Well, stakeouts are dull. I don’t blame Victorian mind palace me a bit. Now answer the question.”

“The answer is no. University was an interesting time.”

“Men or women?”

“I experimented with both, but I prefer men.”

“Thought so. Thank you for telling me.”

Sherlock sighed, only slightly aggravated, and continued the game. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

“What exactly happened between you and Major Sholto?”

John stiffened, his hands slipping out of Sherlock’s. Sherlock felt the loss keenly, but his curiosity had been piqued for so long that he actually didn’t mind overly much.

“Nothing,” John said stiffly. “Nothing happened. Nothing could happen. He was my commanding officer, and we were in the army. There was mutual attraction, heavily implied but never acted upon, and that was it.”

“I see,” Sherlock breathed out, his fingers steepled in front of his face. “So you’re bisexual, then?”

“Yes. Most people don’t understand that so quickly,” he remembered, thinking back on some of his other, infinitely more awkward, coming out experiences. By the time he’d figured himself out, he’d been in his late 20s, and people just _couldn’t comprehend_ being sexually and romantically attracted to more than one sex. All in all, he wished that his other confessions had gone this smoothly, but, well, there was only one Sherlock Holmes, who was currently eyeing him not-unsympathetically.

“Most people are total idiots, my dear John. Do you want to go on?”

“Let’s. Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could see that his reluctance to speak was making John nervous, but they’d never discussed this giant pink elephant that was always in the room between them before, and he knew John would understand. Trying his damndest to keep his voice steady, he asked, “When did you first begin to harbor romantic feelings for me?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s eyes were watering, and Sherlock was alarmed until he saw that he was chuckling a little. “We’ve wasted so much time,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry that I brushed you off so rudely at the restaurant.”
> 
> “Oh, I knew that would probably happen. But you were too gorgeous for me not to at least try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a roller coaster, just a heads up.

_"Come here in the duality of time  
_

_The things I feel now I never thought I'd find  
_

_I wonder if our future was written in our past  
_

_I was your first taste, would you be my last  
_

_My world split in two  
_

_I had to prove I didn't think  
_

_I didn't know I could do it without you  
_

_Do it without you..."_

_\--MS MR, "No Trace"_

 

John was barely rattled. They’d been building up to this since they’d met, after all. But he couldn’t stop the blush from suffusing his face when he admitted: “I was wildly attracted to you from the very beginning. You looked like you should have been a statue in a museum somewhere having exhausted art students try to draw you, and all I could think was that you couldn’t possibly be real. And then I got to know you, and you became the realest thing I’d ever known.”

He stopped for a minute to collect himself and drink some more of his scotch. When he had braced himself sufficiently to glance at Sherlock, he saw his best friend still as the statue he had just described him as; his glass was hanging loosely from his hand over the side of his chair, and only his smoldering eyes revealed how close his always fragile self-control was to snapping. John shuddered, because that… that was surprisingly hot. Sherlock let out a growl deep in his throat, and John got on with it.

“But you shot me down at the restaurant that night, and so I tried very hard to keep myself from falling for you. Obviously, I didn’t succeed. I finally acknowledged that I had deeper feelings for you at the pool, and they’ve only grown stronger since. When you ‘died,’ I was devastated. I thought we’d never get our chance, that all we would ever be was an almost. Those two years you were gone were the longest of my entire life.” He set his glass down and looked Sherlock straight in the face. “What about you, Sherlock? When did you realize that you had romantic feelings for me?”

* * *

Sherlock spoke quickly but clearly, “I was intrigued by the soldier/doctor combination and the psychosomatic limp, but what really fueled my interest in you was when you shot a man for me after knowing me for so little time and then wanted to stay with me. Not many people do, but you seemed to find me fascinating and believed that I was a much better man than I had always considered myself to be. I felt my heart warming, but I knew that I felt more for you than friends usually feel for each other when I saw you strapped in that bomb jacket. I thought I was going to lose you, and I couldn’t bear it.”

John’s eyes were watering, and Sherlock was alarmed until he saw that he was chuckling a little. “We’ve wasted so much time,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry that I brushed you off so rudely at the restaurant.”

“Oh, I knew that would probably happen. But you were too gorgeous for me not to at least try.”

Sherlock felt himself blushing at John’s bluntness, and wanted to repay him in kind. Fumblingly, he expressed, “Your eyes hold depths in them that I want to explore forever, and whenever you snap into Captain Watson mode, I find you irresistible.”

“Do you now? Then why didn’t you ever do anything about it?” John poked his chest with his finger teasingly, but then he settled back on the edge of his seat, with a hand left back on Sherlock’s knee, and Sherlock knew he was serious.

“You had an endless string of boring girlfriends, and you kept saying you weren’t gay! Why didn’t you?”

“You said you were a sociopath just as much and tried to alienate me at nearly every opportunity!”

They were sitting closer together now, very much in each other’s space, but they weren’t focused on that. “You flirted with every decent looking female we came across—“

“You composed a bloody song for Irene fucking Adler—“

“You embarrassed me on your blog!”

“Oh, please,” John scoffed, “It was all about you! It was obvious you were my entire world!”

“And yet I disappear for two little years, and you get engaged to a psychopath—“

“She’s fucking dead now, Jesus, let it go; and you fell off a _roof_ in front of me—“

“I did it for you!”

“You should have told me you were alive then!”

Sherlock remembered what Lestrade had told him, and proceeded with caution. “I’m truly sorry. I honestly didn’t know you had cared about me that much.”

“You were everything. Everything,” John said, his head in his hands. “Hell, you still are.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, and mentioned awkwardly, “John, I have a confession to make. Actually, a few.”

“Go for it.”

“I left your wedding early because my heart had just been irrevocably shattered. While that den you found me in later was because of a case, I had enjoyed losing myself in the sweet haze of drugs for a month; but they were only partially effective in helping me forget you. And if Mycroft had called that plane back any later, I would have already overdosed. I was supposed to die in six months anyway, and I couldn’t live without you again.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think I want to hear this, and also I’m going to fucking kill your brother—“

He steamrolled over John, because this needed to be said: “I was going to kiss you. The night I revealed I was alive? I was going to say hello, it’s me, accept your recriminations, and kiss you, hideous mustache and all. I dreamed of it for two horrible years. I missed you more than anything, and I wanted to kiss you so badly I ached with it.”

* * *

John wanted very much to cry, but he wanted to kiss Sherlock’s beautiful, stupid face even more. “But Mary. And I couldn’t stop hitting you.”

“Yes.”

“You shot a man for me, and told me it was for my wife.”

“Yes. But, you shot a man for me as well.”

“You died for me.”

“Not just you.”

“Sherlock,” John exhaled, and stood. “Shut up.”

He cupped Sherlock’s face with both of his hands, and Sherlock looked so joyously disbelieving about this new twist that he couldn’t resist kissing both of his eyelids before he murmured, right next to Sherlock’s ear, which made him shiver in a really intriguing way, “Sherlock, if I were to search this flat top to bottom right now, would I find drugs secreted away?”

Sherlock gripped his waist and smiled up at him. “No, John. All I have is a cigarette pack or two.”

“You’re kidding.”

“People kept using my addictions against me. They were a weakness.”

“But didn’t Magnusson say I was your pressure point? What will you do about me?”

“You are,” replied Sherlock, brutally honest. “But you made your choice to stay with me and I’m too selfish to let you go ever again.”

And then John leaned down, and Sherlock arched up, and they kissed at last. John thought vaguely—past the all-consuming joy of finally getting to kiss Sherlock—that this should have been more awkward than it was, but his heart was singing too loudly for him to do more than smile a little against the hot plushness of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow.

He heard a slightly breathless but indignant snort, and then he was, with no dignity whatsoever, hauled onto Sherlock’s lap. “You weren’t close enough,” he heard, and then he was back to being snogged to within an inch of his life. He gave as good as he got, sticking his hands into Sherlock’s soft, expensive-smelling hair to keep his head still and exploring every inch of his teeth and tongue and palate. Sherlock groaned into his mouth and wrapped his hands around his back, running them up and down his sides. John nipped his bottom lip in approval and then kissed it gently before he disengaged, breathing hard.

Sherlock tried to chase after him, but John was stroking his cheekbones in a really distracting way, so he all he could do was pout ineffectually. John kissed him again, quickly, because he had to, and drowned in the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth until he remembered what he was going to say again. Sherlock was smirking at him, and he put his hand on one side of Sherlock’s jaw and kissed him from his earlobe and down the other side until he was shaking.

“Not fair,” he gasped out.

“Can’t you hold still for a second? I want to tell you something.”

* * *

He took one good look at John and decided that no, he wasn’t allowed to say what he wanted to Sherlock first, and embraced John to where his nose was buried in John’s grey-blond, bar-soap smelling hair. He made a protesting sound into Sherlock’s shoulder, but subsided when Sherlock started speaking. Sherlock didn’t think he could tell John what he wanted to tell him face to face, but he wanted to say it very badly indeed, so this would have to do.

“No, I can’t. You aren’t allowed to say it yet. For all the time we’ve known each other, you have always been the more emotionally competent of the two of us, and that’s fine. But please, let me speak first.”

John took a deep breath and arranged himself so he was more comfortable on Sherlock’s lap, both pointedly ignoring their erections for the time being. He eventually settled with one of Sherlock’s arms around his waist and his thumb brushing gently back and forth over the rapidly beating pulse point on Sherlock’s neck.

“Okay.”

“When I first realized that I was in love with you, I was ashamed of myself. I thought that my transport had committed the ultimate betrayal. Look at what happened to Ms. Adler; she let her heart get in the way of a perfectly acceptable brain, and her misplaced sentiment nearly killed her.”

“… Nearly?” John asked delicately.

“Not now, John. I learned how to function with being so in love with you that I couldn’t breathe with you around sometimes. It hurt more than I can describe to love you so when I was certain that you could never return the depths of my feelings for you, but I was helpless to stop myself. You had wormed your way into all the nooks and crannies of my heart, had become the undisputed King of my mind palace, and I just let it happen. I thought, sometimes, that we might have a chance and I could have hope. This, John,” Sherlock said, looking at a dumbfounded John full in the face, “is more than I could ever have dreamed of. I love you. I love you so much that I died for you, came back for you, planned your wedding to someone else, killed for you, and nearly overdosed for you. I would rip apart galaxies to see you laugh, I would tear someone limb from limb for making you cry, and I know nothing about children but I will do my best to help you raise your child.”

Helplessly, he repeated, pressing a kiss to John’s temple, “I love you.”

* * *

John kissed him again, holding his face gently as he lavished attention on those delectable lips. He drew back after a minute, and Sherlock’s eyes were so bright that words came spilling out of him, impromptu and haplessly sincere.

“I love you too. How could you not know that I love you, have loved you for so long? You’re a genius. You brought the light back into my life after the war and showed me a better battleground. After I was shot, I could feel myself fading away. If I hadn’t met Stamford that day, I don’t think I would have lasted much longer.”

Sherlock kissed him hard, and muttered against his mouth, “We should send him a fruit basket. Isn’t that something people do?”

John laughed. “Yes, and we should.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “You made my limp go away, and you kept rescuing me. I didn’t think we were friends, but you didn’t think twice about saving me anyway.”

“We saved each other.”

“Sherlock, I love you dearly, but stop bloody interrupting me.”

He nodded, chastised.

“I knew I had strong feelings for you, but I’d never felt like that about _anyone_ before. You became indispensable, but I thought you didn’t feel the same way about me; I wasn’t sure you even could, honestly. And then there was Irene. You two clicked instantly, and she was so beautiful. I thought for sure that there was no chance for me at all, but I was jealous anyway. Part of the reason I hated Moriarty so much was because he was taking you away from me, and you seemed to like it. It was awful. Hell, I was even jealous of Janine, and I was married at the time. It was just the two of us for so long, and suddenly all these other people had claims on you too. And then you shot Magnusson for me, and I knew that even if all you felt for me was platonic, you did love me, probably more than anyone. But then I almost lost you again, and that was it. I couldn’t be without you again. I wanted you in any way I possibly could.”

He was passionately kissed, crushed against the hard planes of Sherlock’s chest and his mouth devoured like it was his last meal on earth. He couldn’t stop the moan that escaped him, and Sherlock’s eyes went nearly black with desire at the sound.

“You can have me in every way, John.”

“You’re mine?”

“I’m yours.”

John had to get his hands on Sherlock’s bare skin _immediately_. He set about it by unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, each lovely button revealing more perfect pale skin. Meanwhile, Sherlock had started kissing his neck, and once his shirt had been unbuttoned all the way, he bit down hard; the high-pitched whine that left John’s throat made Sherlock smile against his neck before he licked it gently, soothing the bite. John clutched at him and ground down against his erection, thinking he was going to spontaneously combust if they didn’t get to a horizontal surface soon.

His brain may have been melting with every kiss from that wicked mouth, but he was really too old to be doing this on a chair.

* * *

Sherlock had never felt like this before. He was burning up, every one of John’s touches scorching, and he thought he might actually die if they stopped touching for even a second. But then John paused, one hand on Sherlock’s stomach, and when he looked inquiringly at him, he looked angry.

He found out why shortly: “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John sighed, rubbing the gunshot scar. “This is all my fault. I almost lost you.”

Oh, John.“She scarred you too, just not so physically.” He took a deep, fortifying breath, and forged on. “It’s just the two of us now, John. It’s time to let the past and everyone with it go and make our own future. Together.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” John said, kissing him after every word. Sherlock was so happy his chest was bursting with it, and John looked like he felt the exact same way.

He made his voice dark and low, and then he said, “The first step will be to go somewhere a little more… comfortable.”

* * *

John gripped his neck, and asked warningly, “Sherlock, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want you to take me to bed and do every filthy thing to me that your eyes are promising, and then some.”

John didn’t say a word in reply, but his eyes went ocean trench dark, he stood up, and then he ripped the shirt from Sherlock’s body and his own quickly afterwards. Then it was a race to see who could get undressed the fastest while the other tried to pin them to the wall. John pinned Sherlock first, grinding against his thigh as Sherlock ran wondering hands all over him, taking special care for his gunshot scar and kissing him like he was filing everything away for future perusal, thoroughly and with a lot of tongue.

They broke apart eventually, gasping for air. A rational thought wormed its way through John’s head, slowly because most of his blood was throbbing in his cock.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“I noticed that Moran had a gunshot wound remarkably similar to mine before he was zipped up and shipped away. Care to explain?”

“He’s the one who shot you,” Sherlock explained, his hands bracketing John’s waist protectively. “So I shot him.”

John let out a long, low groan, and then it was his turn to be turned and pinned to the wall. “God, I love you.”

“Love you too,” Sherlock chirped cheerfully. He let go of John and smirked, and then he leaned in close to John’s ear and whispered huskily, “Race you to the bedroom. Last one there is the one getting fucked first.”

“Oi, that’s not fair, you have longer legs,” John protested, both shedding clothes as they pelted to the bedroom.

Sherlock made it there first of, course, and John echoed his intoxicated giggles as he tackled him enthusiastically onto the bed.“Are you ready to be owned, John Watson?” His face was crinkled from his enormous smile, his plentiful scars only made him more beautiful, and John wanted to remember this forever and ever.

“We’ll see about that, Sherlock Holmes,” and he kissed him hungrily, genuinely uncaring either way. He was going to be making love with his best friend; no matter what, it would be perfect.

* * *

**The next day, a little before noon…**

Greg stood in front of the restaurant that the car had dropped him off and tugged at his tie, sweating nervously. He knew Sally would have a fit if she saw; she was the one who’d helped him arrange it just right, but he hated the damn things. When she’d seen him clumsily trying to put it on, she’d been confused but willing to help; that is, until she’d actually asked what the fuck he was doing with a tie to begin with, and then he’d had to tell her. She’d laughed for a good five minutes, and then shoved him not-so-gently out the door with a promise of a night down at the pub to discuss it later.

The restaurant was posh and French without being ostentatious about it, which Greg knew Mycroft preferred. He had no doubt the food would be spectacular, but that was his only consolation for how this lunch was going to go. The worst part was that he did like Mycroft, but not romantically, and he knew from past experience that keeping him as even a friend after this would be basically impossible.

But, there was nothing for it. It had to be done. He walked inside at 11:55 precisely, and was discreetly shown to a table in the back where Mycroft was already sitting.

“Gregory,” he said, smiling genially. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Mycroft.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a light white wine to go along with our food, if that’s all right?”

“Of course. I trust your taste,” Greg replied, relaxing a little. He could do this. He could have a perfectly normal lunch with a man who appeared for all intents and purposes to be inexplicably infatuated with him, and then he could do his best not to break the genius’s heart too harshly. Right. This was going to be a disaster.

He took a gulp of his ice water to distract himself, and he could feel his companion’s inquiring gaze inspecting him, but he could only fruitlessly hope that Mycroft wouldn’t deduce the truth too soon.

“What would you recommend? I’m sure everything is amazing, but I never did learn French.”

Mycroft promptly told him about a special the restaurant was offering, something with shrimp and a cream sauce that sounded delicious, and he ordered that when the waitress appeared. His dining partner seemed quietly pleased and yet not at all surprised, which had struck Greg over the years as a distinctively Holmesian trait.

They talked about their jobs, Mycroft being typically evasive and waving his hands to indicate when something was classified, but Greg talked freely. Early on in their friendship, Mycroft had told him plainly that there wasn’t any need to try to hide anything from him, because he could a) deduce it and b) easily get access to all of the information anyway. Truthfully, Greg found it refreshing. Most of the time, he had to tone down his work or not talk about it at all; homicides in London were generally a messy business. But Mycroft wasn’t easily shocked, if ever, and even if he couldn’t talk about his work, they could relate over their late hours and the way their jobs threatened to swallow them whole, souls and all.

He would miss this, he realized, munching away at his seafood dish (it was delicious, naturally). He would miss sharing this easy rapport with someone in his insane little group of friends who had the same role of keeping Sherlock Holmes from using his considerable brain power and resources to destroy himself. Greg would include John, but more often than not Sherlock’s self-destructive streak came to the forefront because of him and not despite him, although he rather hoped that the previous night had turned that around. It would certainly make his life significantly simpler.

“Gregory.” Greg didn’t respond, still wallowing. “ _Greg_.”

“What?”

Mycroft sighed impatiently and set down his cutlery. The sound didn’t echo much in the buzzing restaurant, for which Greg was thankful.

“You are under the entirely mistaken impression that once you inform me gently that you do not reciprocate the romantic interest I have for you that any bond we do have will be irreparably broken. But I have had enough of you cowering into your shrimp. Tell me truly: do you hold any attraction or romantic feelings for me at all?”

“No.”

“That is all you ever needed to say.”

When Greg gaped, he rolled his eyes and said, “Close your mouth, Gregory. You look like a codfish. We are both adults, and despite what my assistant may have erroneously told you, I will be just fine. I may need to have some space away from you for a short while, but I have no intention of dissolving our friendship. I value your companionship in any form,” he said quietly. “It is not something I am willing to lose.”

“Good,” Greg said, feeling enormously relieved. “Fantastic. Please, take your space and let me know immediately if I ever make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s very kind of you, but unnecessary.”

His companion went back to eating his steak, and Greg did the same. They finished eating in relative silence, with only a few comments exchanged between them, and then they exited the restaurant.

“The car will take you back to Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said formally, one hand on his brolly and the other on a black, pinstriped hip.

“Thank you,” replied Greg, fiddling with his tie. “I’ll see you around?”

Mycroft smiled a little sadly and said, “I imagine you will,” before he leaned unexpectedly forward and brushed Greg’s stubbled cheek lightly with his lips in an awkward caress. By the time Greg recovered from the shock, Mycroft had already climbed into his own car and been carried away.

* * *

A little after noon, someone knocked on the door to 221B Baker Street. From that alone, Mrs. Hudson knew that it had to be someone who didn’t come by often; everyone else ignored the presence of the door completely. She hurried over and opened it, expecting to see clients for Sherlock, and was surprised to see Janine there instead, holding a smiling Alara.

“Oh, thank God, Mrs. Hudson,” Janine sighed, coming inside. “Have you seen the boys? John was supposed to pick up this little one this morning, and he never showed.”

“I was just about to go check on them, dear,” replied a thoughtful Mrs. Hudson. _Hmm_. “I spent the night at a friend’s, so I haven’t seen them yet today.”

“Well, I really need to get to work, so…” and she started to climb the stairs. Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. It wouldn’t be right to let her go up with no warning for what she might see, would it?

“I’ll go with you,” she decided. As they climbed, Mrs. Hudson worried her hands and wondered what they’d see; yes, she had metaphorically shoved Sherlock inside last evening to work things out with the waiting love of his life, and there was a good possibility that they’d managed it, but they were also John and Sherlock. If there was any way that they could make something simple more complicated than it needed to be, than nine times out of ten they would do it.

“Oh!” She heard Janine exclaim ahead of her, softly. She hurried up the rest of the way, and soon saw what had shocked Janine so much, and couldn’t stop the small squeal that escaped her or the quick clap of her hands any more than the sun could stop rising in the morning.

The two chairs by the fireplace were angled closely towards each other, with maybe enough room for one person to stand in between them. There was an uncapped, half-full glass bottle on the table by John’s chair, which Mrs. Hudson knew must be the scotch; two empty glasses were scattered carelessly on the floor, and most importantly of all, there was a distinctive trail of two men’s clothing leading straight to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson looked at Janine, and Janine looked at Mrs. Hudson, and both women smirked.

“About time, don’t you think?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Oh, definitely,” said Janine, nodding knowingly. “Do you think I could leave Alara out here for a minute?” She asked, leaning curiously towards the bedroom.

“Sure, dear,” Mrs. Hudson answered, already by the hallway and beckoning the other woman closer. Janine set Alara down on the couch and whispered, “We’ll be right back, little one.” Alara simply looked at her with big, hazel eyes for a second, and then she went to sleep with no fuss. Mrs. Hudson and Janine went as quietly as they could down the hall, and found the door cracked open. Mrs. Hudson saw it as the beneficial twist of fate it clearly was, and carefully pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Despite the late hour, both men were fast asleep. She took a long moment to drink in the situation, and had to admit that she was grateful for the sheet that mostly covered them both. She heard Janine stifle a snort of amusement behind her, and knew why immediately: even though Sherlock was the taller of the two, he was the one who had curled around John like a particularly affectionate octopus. But John hadn’t held back either, apparently; his arms were quite firmly (possessively, one might say) around Sherlock and he looked like he had no intention of letting him go any time soon.

In the quiet, Sherlock snuffled a little and cuddled in even closer to John’s neck. Mrs. Hudson felt dreadfully awkward all of a sudden, intruding on their intimacy like that, and backed out of the room.

“We should leave them be,” she murmured to Janine. “They’re still so _new_.”

Janine nodded, took a quick snapshot with her phone, and returned the door to how they’d found it. After retrieving Alara, they retreated to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, where she made them both a nice cup of chamomile tea. Janine sat and breathed in the steam, looking unexpectedly serious.

“There’s something about them, isn’t there?” She mused. “No one else even had a chance, not really.”

“Once they’d met? Not at all. I knew it from the beginning. It just—“ she sighed, “took them a long time to realize that for themselves, and longer for it to become an actual possibility, and finally, finally, reality.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. How could she ever? She’d been dreaming of this for so many years, and now it was a reality; they may not have been as lonely as they both had when they’d met each other, but now they never had to be alone again. Sherlock Holmes needed John Watson, and John Watson needed Sherlock Holmes, and that was quite simply that.

Janine heaved a sigh, derailing Mrs. Hudson’s train of thought.

“Didn’t you say you had to go to work, dear?”

“Fuck, yes. Mrs. H, I’d never ask you to do this normally, but could you watch Alara until you see one of the lovebirds emerge? I really do need to go,” she said, pulling an apologetic face as she stood up.

“It’s no problem at all,” she reassured the younger woman. She didn’t have much planned for the afternoon, after all.

“Oh, thank God. Ta for the tea!”

And she was gone in a swirl of black skirts, purposefully messy brown curls, and if Mrs. Hudson wasn’t mistaken, some kind of Calvin Klein perfume. She sniffed speculatively, and decided that while it wasn’t a terrible perfume for the other woman, a Chanel one would suit her much better.

* * *

Fifteen minutes after the women had left, Sherlock awoke slowly from sleep, blinking the tiredness from his eyes. John was still asleep, breathing slowly and deeply from where he’d happily sprawled all over him. He took a moment to appreciate his bedmate, feeling a hot curl of contentment pulse from his stomach and wind slowly through the rest of his body. _So this is what pure happiness feels like_ , he thought wonderingly to himself. _I’m going to keep him forever._

“Sherlock. Sherrrrlock,” John mumbled. “Go back to sleep, would you, love?”

He felt his face becoming absurdly gooey and sentimental, and let it happen. However, his internal clock was insistently informing him that it was ridiculously late in the day to still be in bed, and when he lazily reached over John’s temptingly warm body to grab his phone, he saw that he’d been right.

“John, we really do need to get up. It’s 1 in the afternoon.”

The body beneath his froze, and then attempted to get upright as fast as possible; since Sherlock was still mostly on said body, both men flailed impotently until John almost shoved Sherlock off the bed, but caught him in an embrace before he hit the floor.

“You okay?” He asked into the cool skin of Sherlock’s shoulder, casually wrapped around him from behind.

“Yes,” he murmured. When Sherlock squirmed a little, he could feel John’s erection digging into his arse. “Do you, ah, want to do something about that?”

John sighed, the warm puff of his exhalation brushing Sherlock’s neck. He squirmed some more. John’s arms tightened around him, and he said, “I would love to. But I really need to use the loo, I’m starving, and I was supposed to pick up Alara absolute ages ago.”

Sherlock huffed, and John nipped at his neck. “Stop that. If you keep that up, we’ll never leave.”

“So?” John chuckled, and Sherlock delighted in being the one to elicit the sound from him. “Do you want me to move back in, or don’t you?”

His answer was the twist of Sherlock in his arms, and his lips being passionately claimed for long minutes; neither cared about the state of their mouths. They only stopped kissing because they needed to breathe, and for Sherlock to suggest with dark silky promise, “Shower?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, folks, so all we have left is essentially an epilogue and then a (separate) one-shot I want very desperately to write. 
> 
> What are your thoughts?


	13. An Epilogue (of sorts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock,” he gasped out. “Let’s go home before we get arrested for public indecency.”
> 
> “You’re my fiancé,” Sherlock growled out. “They can go hang,” and promptly went back to snogging the daylights out of John, who groaned and gave in. This went on for long minutes, and then with the last vestiges of blood in his brain, John had an idea.
> 
> “Hey Sherlock,” he said breathlessly, detaching himself from that wicked, addicting Cupid’s bow. “Remember when you called Alara our daughter in front of someone else for the first time?”

_"Oh don't you wonder when the light begins to fade?  
_

_And the clock just makes the colors turn to grey  
_

_Forever younger growing older just the same  
_

_All the memories that we make will never change  
_

_We'll stay drunk, we'll stay tan, let the love remain  
_

_And I swear that I'll always paint you_  
  
_Golden days, golden days_

_Golden days, golden days..."_

_\-- Panic! At the Disco, "Golden Days"_

 

John moved back into 221B Baker Street a week after Sherlock had asked him to, Alara in tow. He sold the car the week after that; whether he had a child or not, owning a car in London was just unnecessary. By mutual agreement, they agreed that they would sleep together in John’s old room and Alara would stay in Sherlock’s.

Some might have argued with their decision to live together after becoming officially romantically involved so recently, but neither of them really gave a damn about what people said anyway. They didn’t matter. Sherlock didn’t sleep enough, they both had nightmares, and Alara tended to wail at eardrum shatteringly high pitches on the rare times she did scream, but they were really, incredibly happy.

John watched Sherlock with Alara one day after he’d gotten home from the clinic and made a cup of tea, and couldn’t contain the small smile that graced his face. Sherlock had been undeniably awkward with her at first—he wasn’t lying when he said he had no experience with children. But Alara was generally a quiet, cooperative baby, and eventually he’d become curious, as was his wont, started treating her less as some mysterious alien and more as the tiny person she actually was. Currently, he was experimenting with mimicry; he was laying flat on the floor, propped on his elbows, and Alara sat a little in front of him and tried to keep up.

Sherlock made yet another grotesque face at his child, one in which he opened his chameleon colored eyes incredibly wide and smiled like he was possessed, and Alara scrunched up her little face furiously in an attempt to do the same. John giggled into his tea.

“Get down here, John,” Sherlock ordered. “I want to see her try to imitate you.”

John acquiesced immediately, although he muttered, “This will be hell on my shoulder and leg both, I hope you know.” He sneezed from the dust when he lay down, and then Alara did, and Sherlock curled towards John, propping his pointy chin on his good shoulder and breathing into his hair. That was one of the things John hadn’t really been expecting, even though he’d seen Sherlock invade dozens of people’s personal space over the years like the word _violation_ didn’t exist and he obviously wasn’t as averse to touch as his self-imposed ‘sociopath’ moniker made him appear.

Sherlock was tactile. Hesitantly, at first; he would drop awkward kisses at John’s hairline and crowd into his space like he was asking for something without actually asking, and John noticed. He started to kiss him all the time, on wild curls and bare shoulders and cheekbones and lips, and Sherlock would always twitch a little after, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. He calmed down with time, and wrapped gloved fingers and muscular arms around John’s hands and waist during the day and his whole body around John’s like he was emulating a squid at night. John had to get used to a lean body crawling into their bed at all hours of the night and curling around him so he was always just a little too warm, but he didn’t mind. The alternative wasn’t worth contemplating.

He returned from his musings once Sherlock started to tap Morse code on his spine. When he looked at Alara, he saw that she’d continued the game as well as she’d known how, and had a thoughtful expression that he assumed was supposed to mirror his own on her face. He chuckled, and Sherlock lifted his head from his shoulder, disgruntled from the bouncing; John laughed some more and ruffled his hair as he stood up, leaning down to pick Alara up and bring her to his much more comfortable chair.

“What did you do that for?” Sherlock pouted.

“Love, I’m too old to be playing games on the floor. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” He cooed at his daughter. She smiled, and his heart melted.

Sherlock leaped up and declared, “Bored! I’m off to Bart’s,” and then he kissed John on the corner of his mouth, Alara on the top of her fuzzy ginger head, and whirled out the door in a blur of lean legs and a long coat.

* * *

One of the stipulations John had before he moved back in was that Sherlock remove all toxic experiments from the flat. To compensate, he’d managed to convince someone at Bart’s that he be allowed a certain number of hours a week in a lab there, because his experiments were _important_ , damn it, and that way he was closer to body parts anyway. Molly was far more accommodating about them than she used to be while far less likely to put up with any overt manipulation, and Sherlock blamed it almost entirely on Lestrade’s influence.

He burst into Bart’s and headed straight for the morgue. There was something he’d been meaning to experiment with for a while; people’s elbows really were fascinating when they exploded.

* * *

Yes, Sherlock and John were very happy together. That wasn’t to say that they had a perfect relationship or that they never fought anymore, of course. They’d always fought, but at least now there wasn’t the unacknowledged feelings and attraction running like a live wire underneath their more charged interactions. It made things remarkably easier, and both would easily admit if anyone asked (which they didn’t, but sometimes they told them anyway) that the angry sex and makeup sex were actually something of a bonus.

Instead of arguing over body parts in the fridge, they argued over whose turn it was to change or bathe Alara, who had to go rock her back to sleep when she started screaming in the middle of the night, and how much input Mycroft was allowed to have where his almost-niece was concerned (none, if you asked Sherlock, but John was curious).

They were… parents.

Both of them had been there when she’d said her first word—it was “mama,” and John had needed to go for a long walk afterwards and attempt to breathe somehow through his jumbled mix of feelings. Sherlock had found him on a bridge, staring unseeingly at some geese, and said nothing but wrapped around him from behind; they breathed in the smell of London in tandem, and after a little while John felt better. He’d turned around and kissed him, not heatedly, just to show him how much he loved him, and they’d kissed unhurriedly on the bridge for long moments, hands on faces and curled into hair and shirt collars, before heading home.

* * *

Alara loved when Sherlock played his violin. She would crawl—and then once she’d learned how—walk over, enraptured by the music pouring from the instrument. Initially, that had been the main reason he started to really try to connect with her; obviously, she had excellent taste, and he wanted very badly to groom that into something worthwhile. But John caught on quickly, and forbade him in his Captain Watson voice to give her a fragile, expensive instrument when she hadn’t even learned to read yet.

“What about after she does learn to read?” He asked hopefully, sprawled on John’s chest.

“Maybe. If she still wants to,” John mumbled, close to sleep’s edge. “She’s smart, and we’re respecting her decisions.”

* * *

When she was four, Mycroft came over one day, and after the usual exchange of barbs with Sherlock and pleasantries with John, he sat in Sherlock’s chair and stared at John’s daughter. She didn’t notice at first, somewhat accustomed to it, but all she did once she had was calmly stare back, blue eyes boring into hazel.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Papa’s brother,” she declared matter-of-factly. “He doesn’t like you.”

John froze, in the automatic process of making tea in the kitchen. Mycroft chuckled, in his false plummy way, and said, “It’s a mite more complicated than that, I’m afraid. But that wasn’t bad. Do you and Papa play deductions?”

“Sometimes.”

“We used to do that. How does he say you are at the game?”

“He says I have a lot to learn.”

“Mm, don’t we all. Dr. Watson, you can come back out now,” he called.

John emerged warily, carrying two mugs of tea; he handed one off to Mycroft and sat in his chair. “I didn’t know that Sherlock was teaching her to deduce,” he murmured after a moment. “I wouldn’t think he’d have the patience.”

“He says I’m promising, Daddy!” Alara chirped, standing by his chair. “We do it all the time!”

John was stunned. “Well. Would you like to sit up here with me, pumpkin?”

“Please?”

“Up you go,” he grunted, lifting her onto his lap. “Oof. I won’t be able to do that for much longer,” he said, kissing her artificially strawberry scented head. She wriggled, and then lay back against his chest.

“’K.”

John looked back at Mycroft to see him pursing his lips and steepling his fingers in his variation of the Holmes thinking pose.

“John,” he said, speaking slowly. “Your daughter seems like a very precocious child. You don’t have to, of course, but I would recommend that she take an IQ test.” He handed John a business card and uttered, “They’re very discreet. Good day!”

And he walked out of the flat, umbrella swinging.

* * *

They both took her to take the testing center a week later. They sat in the waiting room, hands entwined, and Sherlock stayed quiet even though he was dying to speak because he knew John was anxious. He’d had a feeling that this was coming, but even though he knew what they were going to say, he still hoped that he’d be wrong.

He was right. Alara Watson wasn’t a genius. But she was very, very close.

* * *

John was coming up the stairs from a quick trip to Tesco when he heard Alara ask Sherlock something in a hesitant tone. That alone made him pause, because she was never hesitant; she was close to fearless, actually, and it made him insanely proud and terrified at the same time.

“Papa?”

Sherlock looked up from his place on the couch to see a little redhead inches from his face. He’d heard John coming up the stairs, but he couldn’t anymore. Perhaps he’d heard what Sherlock had—the slightest trace of fear—and trusted him to handle it. Or maybe he wanted them to bond. Whatever. Sherlock would do his best regardless.

“Yes, Alara?”

She was wringing her hands uncharacteristically, and he frowned and sat up immediately. She jumped up on the couch next to him and nestled into his side so he couldn’t see her face, and then asked, “What was it like for you? At school?”

Sherlock sighed. He could try to lie, but she would know he wasn’t telling the truth and think he had betrayed her; her intelligence and natural deductive skills made her an almost-flawless lie detector.

“It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “We were isolated growing up, and since we had no basis for comparison we thought we were completely average. Obviously, we were wrong—“ Understatement. Just. _Understatement._ “—and the other children didn’t appreciate that much. Mycroft’s gift for manipulation bloomed early, though, so he managed to get by, although he tended to make people uneasy without them realizing why, and my younger brother seemed harmless enough that he was generally overlooked.”

He wasn’t harmless; in fact, he was almost worse than Sherlock and Mycroft combined. There was a reason Sherlock hadn’t seen him in several years, and it wasn’t just that MI6’s pretty gadgets and deadly agents had transformed him into a workaholic _(You know what happened to the other one)_.

“What about you?”

“The other children never liked me. Initially, I tried to be as normal as I could, but I got bored eventually. Children dislike that which is too different from them, but when they tried to bully me, I fought back; as I’d been enrolled in martial arts classes for a couple years by then it didn’t end well for them, and then they left me alone. I focused on school, but it was always too easy and so I turned to other pursuits. University was an improvement, and my post-grad years even more so.”

“Will that happen to me?” Alara asked, her voice small. “I want the other kids to like me.”

Sherlock hugged her close and raised his voice so that John would hear him, and join them. “Tell me, little one. Is your Daddy extraordinary?”

“Of course he is,” she replied, sounding shocked he’d even asked such a ridiculous question.

John stood at the entrance to their rooms looking soppy, and Sherlock jerked his head imperiously to the side in a silent indication to sit next to them so Alara would be sandwiched between them. He did, and then Sherlock waited impatiently for them to adjust themselves before he continued with what he was saying.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He stage-whispered to the child between them. She nodded furiously, and he smirked. “I know your Daddy is special, and so do a few other people, but everyone else thinks he’s… ordinary.”

“No!”

“Yes!” He said, tickling her. “We know better than them, of course, but that’s because he hides it.”

Alara turned to John, her eyes comically wide, and asked, “Is that true, Daddy?”

John sighed gustily and ruffled her hair before he met Sherlock’s eyes and nodded sheepishly. They’d certainly argued over this often enough.

“Why do you do that?”

“Unlike some people, I don’t _need_ to show off, sweetheart,” he said pointedly. “All I need is for people to respect me and trust me to do what I do best.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. What an absurd sentiment. “The point, little one, is that your Daddy has become an expert at playing ordinary when he is anything but. Would you like to learn how to do that?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, perking up. “Can we start now?”

They didn’t start her lessons that day, however. Later that night, John rolled over to Sherlock, and asked, “Do you really want me to be more like you?”

Sherlock snorted, but his voice was soft when he replied, “No. But I am a fundamentally selfish person, John. You know that.”

“Should we find someone to teach her Russian? It is her heritage.”

“Ask her. She’s old enough to understand. And if she wants to, then Mycroft and I can teach her.”

“You two know Russian? Of course you do. Why should I even be surprised?”

“I like that I can still surprise you.”

“You always will.”

When they asked her, she agreed instantly, and picked it up with remarkable ease.

* * *

Alara was six when Sherlock asked John to marry him. He didn’t do it traditionally, naturally. His first step was to sit down with Alara and ask her very seriously if she would mind becoming a Watson-Holmes. She took her time about it, relatively speaking for a six year old and Sherlock Holmes, swinging her legs back and forth above the ground as she thought.

“You want to marry Daddy?” She asked mainly to clarify.

“Yes.” His reply came out sounding hoarse and hopelessly sincere. “More than anything.”

“Well then,” she shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Go ahead. Will I get to wear a pretty dress?”

“The prettiest,” Sherlock promised.

* * *

Now that he had Alara’s approval, he could move on to the second stage: how, precisely, he was going to propose. Should he get rings? They both used their hands so much that they might not be very convenient, or get lost somehow, and the thought of that happening was unbearable. Sherlock kept pacing around London, thinking and overthinking about the myriad ways this could all go horribly, horribly wrong.

 

_Stop panicking. He’ll say yes. MH_

_Will he really? His last marriage didn’t exactly enamor him to the convention. SH_

_He loves you. Alara adores you. Take the risk, little brother. MH_

_Rings? SH_

_No. Tattoos would be more practical and also more… permanent, which I know you would prefer. MH_

_I’ll consider it. SH_

 

Really, tattoos were the best option, even if Mycroft was the one to suggest it. His claim on John would be there for all to see, and provided that nothing ever caused him to lose his left ring finger or have it burned off, he would have it for the rest of his life. After having known John for less than 48 hours, he had been fully prepared to keep John by his side in any capacity until the day he died. Two years away from him had felt like being torn slowly and torturously in half; a session with Sebastian Moran had nothing on simple distance and intended misdirection from the man he loved. But all of that was over now, of course. Unbelievably on some days (almost all), he had John. He just wanted him to be his forever, and officially, with the same nagging itch that had spiraled his desperate descent into addiction, except _worse_.

When he started to pay attention to his surroundings again, he found that he had unconsciously made his way to the most reputable tattoo and piercings shop in London. He swallowed and opened the door, and when he left he had two certificates for complementary ring tattoos, design currently unknown and appointment date pending.

* * *

 Step three was location. His first thought was Angelo’s, but he discarded that quickly since it would be too obvious, and he wanted John in a mindset where he vaguely suspected what Sherlock was up to, but would be totally blown away once he finally revealed everything. Anywhere near Bart’s was naturally out of the question, and asking John inside their flat demonstrated no imagination at all. He contemplated proposing at their first crime scene together, or where John had shot the cabbie and saved his life, but John would probably think those were a bit not good.

This was hopeless.

Thankfully, Lestrade texted him before he did something monumentally rash, but it was a close thing; he swooped by 221B and grabbed John, and then the two of them were off, with Alara safely in Mrs. Hudson’s custody. Three days later found them both insanely sleep deprived, bruised, and a bit bloody from taking down a few especially recalcitrant suspects, but Sherlock was exhilarated and inspired.

Their lives weren’t boring. Their lives weren’t simple. Attempting to find the perfect location was always going to be a fruitless endeavor. Spontaneity, it appeared, would be the name of the game. It wouldn’t hurt to have what he wanted to say in some variations well rehearsed for whenever he did get his opportunity, however.

* * *

John was worried about Sherlock. He’d been ridiculously twitchy all day (for weeks now really); he knew Sherlock wasn’t using—one of the many benefits to their romantic partnership—and that he hadn’t been smoking or going crazy with nicotine patches. No, this was something else. When he’d asked Alara about it in a fit of exasperation/bemusement, she’d stared at him and then stuck her nose up and declaimed, “You see, but you do not observe,” in what John had to concur was a more than passable imitation of Sherlock. But then she’d clammed up, and he hadn’t been able to persuade her to tell him anything useful since then.

Quite frankly, he’d had enough. So after a boring case that Sherlock had solved in half a day for a favor that Greg called in, he dragged him off to Angelo’s, where he actually ordered and ate an entire meal without speaking more than maybe a few sentences. Next, they went to the park, and Sherlock reached out and held his hand tightly as they meandered through the darkness.

“Sherlock,” John said, speaking softly. The hand holding his jerked. “Love, what the hell’s going on with you?”

* * *

“I… I—“

God, this was intolerable. He was Sherlock Holmes, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t _do_ hesitation. But he’d be damned if he was getting on one knee wearing these trousers; they were one of his favorite pairs.

“John,” he began, clearing his throat. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Yes…?”

“I love you, and you love me.”

“You know I do.”

He let go of John’s hand and paced back and forth in the circle of light the streetlamp gave off, frustrated. What was the point of rehearsal if he froze up when the curtain rose anyway?

“Sherlock?”

Kneeling it was. He walked back over to John with purpose and sank down to one knee, holding the tattoo certificates aloft like an offering.

“John Watson, I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said, as evenly as he could. “We are colleagues, partners in crime, best friends, lovers, and technically adoptive parents. Would you marry me, and do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

* * *

To say that John was surprised would be a massive understatement. Of all of the things he had ever thought he would hear Sherlock say to him, a proposal hadn’t even been on the list.

“I thought you didn’t even believe in marriage,” he choked out eventually. Sherlock stared up at him in silence from his position on the ground, certificates still hanging in the air from his elegant hand, and John took them from him with trembling hands and looked them over. Certificates for two tattoos… complementary, not matching… and Sherlock was beginning to look self-conscious. His face was icing over, and those verdigris eyes looked like something vital was in the slow process of shattering behind them.

John pulled Sherlock up, gently, and gripped him around the waist. He honestly hadn’t considered getting married to Sherlock, but now that the option was before him, he found that he wanted it fiercely.

“Is this what you’ve been so twitchy about lately?”

Sherlock nodded, stiff and unyielding under John’s calloused hands. He looked down, and John cupped his jaw to hold it in place while he spoke to him.

His eyes tearing up, he said, “ _Yes_. Yes, you silly bugger, of course I’ll marry you.”

Sherlock dropped his head down to John’s shoulder, and he could hear his muffled baritone say, “Oh, thank God.”

“Hey. Hey. Did you actually think I would say no?”

“It was always a possibility.”

“It really, really wasn’t.”

And John kissed him, gently at first but then, as it almost always did, their kiss blazed up in a wildfire of passion and need. Sherlock was desperate and sloppy, nipping at his jaw and then down to his neck where he proceeded to leave a trail of burning, possessive hickeys and John gasped and ground down against his muscular thigh. Sherlock groaned low and deep, and John needed to get him into a bed and naked more than he’d ever needed anything in his life.

“Sherlock,” he gasped out. “Let’s go home before we get arrested for public indecency.”

“You’re my fiancé,” Sherlock growled out. “They can go hang,” and promptly went back to snogging the daylights out of John, who groaned and gave in. This went on for long minutes, and then with the last vestiges of blood in his brain, John had an idea.

“Hey Sherlock,” he said breathlessly, detaching himself from that wicked, addicting Cupid’s bow. “Remember when you called Alara our daughter in front of someone else for the first time?”

* * *

Of course he remembered; he’d said it absentmindedly to a client once, and John’s eyes had gone nearly black. Once the client was gone, Alara was unceremoniously sent to Molly and Greg, and John had worshipped his body all night long until Sherlock felt like the best played and adored of instruments. There may have been rope involved, and at one point Sherlock had stopped speaking in English altogether and started muttering in fluent French.

“What are you offering?”

“A chance for total reciprocation,” John whispered hotly into his ear. Sherlock grabbed his hand and tugged him down the street, and they ran home and did just that until they fell asleep on each other in a sweaty, sticky, boneless, joyful sprawl. John had ligature marks on his wrists. Sherlock had bite marks _everywhere_. Mrs. Hudson, who had wisely bought earplugs years ago, had a peaceful, full night of rest.

* * *

They got married six months later. It was a simple, tasteful wedding; Sherlock didn’t have to solve any cases and John didn’t have to save any lives. All of their friends and loved ones attended, and when the two men swore to love each other and be with each other from then until the day they died, the entire congregation was in tears. Mycroft wiped away a subtle tear or two. Mrs. Hudson and Molly cried buckets. Greg sniffled manfully before succumbing as well.

Alara didn’t know why everyone was crying; personally, she couldn’t stop smiling. Finally, _finally_ , she could officially be a Watson-Holmes. Sherlock’s mum would be so pleased.

* * *

They’d gotten their tattoos done the day before. After some thought, they’d chosen to have each other’s heartbeats as their “rings,” and gone to the hospital to get their records accordingly. The tattoo artist hadn’t even blinked; she just _hmmm’d_ and then set about marking their visible and permanent devotion to each other on John and then Sherlock’s skin.

And it was done, just like that. A vow for a life together set in ink and jagged lines on newly reddened flesh.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t stop calling John his husband after the wedding. He told all of his clients first thing, he exclaimed it proudly to the whole of Scotland Yard, he summoned John from anywhere within the flat with a call of it, and was so uncharacteristically _happy_ with his lot in life that half of NSY legitimately thought he had been possessed.

John did it too, but less dramatically and more like he was finally a satisfied, completed man.

They had each been a half. Now they were a whole, and the world was right.

* * *

Alara was ten when someone tried to bully her for the first time. Tried, because they’d pranced over to her, superior expression firmly on their face, opened their mouth, and Alara cut them off before a syllable could get out and used her not-inconsiderable brainpower and deductive lessons to drag them down about twenty pegs.

After they’d stood gaping at her for more than a minute (and she counted all 60 seconds), she sighed and walked away, muttering, “Morons,” under her breath.

When she got home that day, she told her parents all about it; John looked proud beyond belief and the only emotion Sherlock saw fit to express was the lazy smugness of a large, indolent cat.

By the time she was 13, all of her classmates were terrified of her and her teachers were rightfully wary. Whenever they acted lazy or incompetent or treated one of her peers badly, she pulled them aside, pseudo-casually, and laid out their weak spots in front of them point blank. Once they were done shouting at her about being a child or spouting gibberish, they would sort out the situation shortly.

Alara Watson-Holmes had _power_ , and she wasn’t afraid to use it.

Mycroft, naturally, had preened like the vainest peacock in Wiltshire when Sherlock accused him of that being his doing once.

“But of course, brother mine. You didn’t think she picked that up from anyone less than the best, surely?”

A huffed sigh.

“No.”

* * *

One memorable occasion happened when Alara was fourteen. She texted Sherlock first.

 

_Two dumb boys keep hitting on me. AWH_

_And? SH_

_They’re best friends. AWH_

_So? SH_

_They’re definitely in love with each other. AWH_

 

Sherlock called her, then. “You normally sort out these situations on your own. And quite aptly, I might add. What’s so different about this one?”

“They’re _fourteen-year old boys_ , Papa. I tried! But they won’t listen to reason because of their fucking hormones and they both think they’re infatuated with me and now,” she groaned, “now they’re fighting over me.”

Sherlock could tell she wasn’t done, so he let her stew.

“This is the stupidest thing to ever happen to me,” she stated matter-of-factly.

He snorted. “It won’t be the last.”

“I know. But really, what should I do?”

“Lock them in a closet and wait.”

“ _Papa._ ”

“Offer to have a threesome with them and then don’t show up.”

Her hanging up on him wasn’t all that surprising, really.

 

_Dad, what would you have done if you had met Papa when you were my age? AWH_

_Stammered. Gaped. Probably have accepted my bisexuality more than a decade in advance. Why? JW_

_I’m trying to figure out the best way for two silly boys to realize that they don’t actually want to date me but each other instead. AWH_

_Ah. Have you told them this? JW_

_I made an attempt. It didn’t go well. Papa suggested I lock them together in a closet of some sort. Thoughts? AWH_

_No! JW_

_… maybe. JW_

_Stage an intervention? Would you say that their mutual feelings are obvious to everyone? JW_

_Yeppers. AWH_

_Try the closet thing a couple of times. If that doesn’t work, the intervention should. JW_

 

It did, thankfully. Within the month the two were commonly seen bashfully clutching their clasped hands together and looking happier than anyone had ever seen them look before.

Alara was content.

* * *

When Alara was fifteen, she brought her third boyfriend home to meet her parents. Since the first two had barely lasted for more than a couple of weeks apiece, this was a notable occasion.

Did she bother to warn either of them beforehand?

No.

Was either of them remotely prepared for this occurrence?

* * *

John had thought about it, in a distant sort of way, when Alara cannonballed gracefully (ish) into puberty. She might have boyfriends. She might have girlfriends. She might have both, or neither.

 _A little warning before she actually brought one of these previously hypothetical people to 221B would not have gone amiss,_ he thought, seeing the awkward young man she had semi-dragged into the flat with her.

Sherlock sat up slowly from where he had been sprawled out on the couch with his head in John’s lap and his dressing gown spread dramatically around him to appraise the newcomer.

“Hello,” John said cautiously. “Who’s your friend, Alara?”

“My name’s Harry,” the boy blurted out. He rushed forward and shook both of their hands, and then retreated back to their daughter, clutching her hand tightly. She winced a bit, but smiled approvingly regardless.

John could feel Sherlock quivering with barely suppressed deductions beside him, and lay a calming hand on his muscular thigh to distract him from the need to say them all immediately, right this very instant. He introduced them both, and the nervous, slightly pimply teen looked relieved that his first ( _Obvious_ , chimed the Sherlock-voice in his head) meet-the-parents seemed to be going smoothly.

Alara looked amused, mostly, but mildly concerned by the lack of Sherlock’s input. For all of his many fantastic qualities, his ability to maintain any kind of silence for more than a miniscule amount of time wasn’t one of them.

“Well, Papa?”

John groaned.

“He’s six months younger than you, he wonders daily whether he’s more attracted to you or terrified, his parents are divorced and have both remarried and he hates both of their new spouses—“

When he paused to take a breath, Alara rolled her eyes and sighed, “Papa, I knew all of that already. What do you think of him? Just him? Not all the stuff you see _about_ him.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, looking surprised. “He seems nice enough. Adores you, obviously—although who wouldn’t?—and he seems to be a brave young chap.”

“Better than the first two?”

“Light-years better,” he assured her. Harry looked quietly pleased.

She beamed. “We’re going for a walk! I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Get home safe,” John mumbled. She sighed affectionately, and then dropped Harry’s hand (leaving him looking rather bereft), kissed both of them perfunctorily on the cheek, reclaimed her beau’s hand and rushed out the door.

“Your parents seem… nice?” Harry said, his adolescent voice cracking.

“They’re the best,” Alara confirmed cheerfully. “My _mum_ , though… my god.” And then they were gone.

* * *

Alara had distinctly mixed feelings about her late mother. Luckily, since all of the adults regularly involved in her life did as well, their community was strong. 

Every year without fail, their family visited Anzhelika's grave on the anniversary of her death. They would have visited on her birthday, but none of them knew it. It hadn't been included on the flash drive that Sherlock had perused and John had ignored and subsequently thrown into the senior Holmes' fireplace, and the information hadn't been important enough for it to come to Mycroft's attention. The third Holmes brother could have found out easily, but had been told in no uncertain terms that it didn't actually matter and he had far more important things to do with his time, anyway.

They brought different kinds of flowers each year. Except for pink roses. They never, ever brought those. 

Sherlock and John had been completely honest with their daughter from the very first time she'd been able to understand what they were trying to tell her. They'd been lied to enough. They refused to lie to her. 

When she asked them why she didn't have a mum like everyone else, they told her she had passed away. 

When she asked them why they talked about her rarely, they carefully explained that their relationships to her had been messy and complicated and good and bad in unequal measures. 

 

When she examined herself carefully in the mirror at the age of eleven and carelessly asked why she didn't look like John _or_ Sherlock, they exchanged a glance, sat her down, and told her that they weren't, on the most basic of technicalities, her fathers. 

"But you are!" She cried, thin shoulders shaking. "You're Daddy, and you're Papa, and you're my family!"

"Sweetheart, yes, of course we are," John reassured her, encircling her in his arms and squeezing her firmly. "We are your family."

"We will always be your family," Sherlock seconded, hugging her on the other side of the couch. "But by blood alone, you are your mother's and one of her boyfriend's daughter."

"But that's just genetics," she said, calming down. "Nature. That's not everything. Is it?"

"That depends on who you ask," Sherlock replied, bone-dry.

"No," John said, rolling his eyes. "Nature is most certainly not everything. One could even argue that its role is minimal at best, especially in this situation."

"Well then," their daughter said, satisfied. "That's all right. What do you think Mum's boyfriend was like?"

"Honestly?"

"We have no idea." 

 

One day, after Sherlock and John came home from a case, Sherlock was bleeding sluggishly from a shallow stab wound in his belly. Alara watched with wide eyes as John told him to strip and vanished to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. As Sherlock slowly unbuttoned and shrugged off his sky blue shirt, she stood up and moved closer. 

"Papa?" She asked when he was finally topless. "Where did all those scars come from?"

He sighed. 

"Well, darling, your charming mother gifted me with this particular wound several years ago when I made the criminal mistake of underestimating her," he said, gesturing to his bullet scar. 

" _She shot you_? My mum _shot_ you?"

"Yes."

"Christ," she breathed. 

"He almost died," John said, re-emerging with the first aid kit. 

"Actually--" Sherlock started, but John kissed him to shut him up. They may have believed in total honesty, but Sherlock's temporary death would still be a bit much for a fourteen year-old to handle. 

"Oh my god! Was she was some kind of fucking psychopath?"

"... Yes."

 

When she asked Sherlock about his other scars, he told her. Some of them were explained clinically, some with clear remorse, and others with a vindictive satisfaction. 

The ones from his time with Sebastian Moran and recalcitrant suspects fell into the third category. Once he'd explained how he'd gotten them and the full stories behind them, he waited for her reaction.

"So you sent the man who murdered my mum and tortured you to Russia to be dealt with by my shady relatives who send me pretty weapons for my birthday every year?"

"Yep."

" _Good_."

 

Her questions to John about the war and his own bullet wound scar were answered with equal honesty but more tact, and she loved hearing his stories about all the lives he'd saved most of all. 

 

When she saw John one day, sitting in his chair and staring at a picture of his late wife with a wistful expression, she was confused. 

"Dad?" She asked hesitantly. "Did you ever love Mum?"

"Yes," he answered, sounding surprised. "At one point, I loved her very much. I wouldn't have married her if I didn't. When your Papa and I were apart for those two years, she managed to bring some happiness back into my life when no one else could. I am grateful for that. Bloody grateful." 

"Do you ever miss her?" 

He sighed. "No, dear. No, not really. Everything she ever told me was a lie... it's impossible to love someone like that." He paused then, and seemed to be thinking hard. "The best thing your mother ever did for me was bring me you."

She sniffed, and then said, nestling into his side, "Sap. I love you too."

 

Sherlock, John, and Alara visited her grave together once a year. They also went separately, sometimes. Alara went to chat and to drop off wildflowers, and sometimes to cry and grieve for what might have been. John visited out of respect and duty and the smallest of desires for Mary to have been able to see her marvelous daughter grow up. Sherlock visited the least, and he always brought a small bouquet of orange lilies to lay at her grave. 

James passed by occasionally, and he always kissed the headstone and lay down a single red rose with all the thorns intact.

David came by and told her about his life, and how he'd found a lovely wife at last, and he brought white orchids.

Janine and Mrs. Hudson usually went together, and once they planted a silver ash sapling off to the side of the headstone.  

Mycroft didn't visit, but he made sure that her grave was well-tended and it never looked shabby. 

 

Mary Watson, nee Morstran, was never forgotten. 

* * *

 “How long do you think that’ll last? I give it another month.”

“I give it a month and a half.”

“Teenage relationships,” John sighed, remembering his many disastrous attempts to date when he was that young.

“Please. Those don’t last. And his big doe eyes and inability to tell her no will bore her in no time.”

“She needs an equal. A partner to complement her, to support her, to be able to stand up to her—“

“Quite, my dear John,” Sherlock purred, and snogged John breathless into the couch.

The words went unspoken but understood between them, pulsing back and forth between their tattooed fingers: _She needs what you are to me, and what I am to you._

* * *

Neither of them was right, as it turned out. Alara and Harry lasted for two more months, and then she dumped him.

She seemed aimless for a while after that. She wasn’t the ridiculously romantic sort, so they knew that she wasn’t upset about the split with her ex. Instead, Alara seemed to be taking the time to undergo some intense introspection and spend more time on her hobbies.

When John asked her if she was ok, she only smiled mysteriously and plucked away at the strings of her violin.

When John asked Sherlock if he thought that they needed to be worried, he looked irritated beyond belief.

“John. Husband. Moon of my life. Do you really not understand what’s going on in her head?”

“No,” he said, head buried in hands.

A warm hand caressed his shoulder, and then Sherlock rumbled into his ear, “You should. I’ll even give you a hint. This situation should be intimately, painfully familiar to you—“

“—because I’ve gone through it myself! Of course,” John breathed out.

_Oh._

* * *

Alara was sixteen when she brought her first girlfriend home. John and Sherlock were as polite as they could be, respectively, and they both smirked fondly when their daughter looked at her girlfriend like she was all she had ever needed to bloom.

The girl’s name was Hayley, and they were still together when they both went off to university.

 

“Take care of him,” Alara whispered to Sherlock, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her long, curly hair tickling his skin. “He’ll put on his stiff upper lip and try to be Captain Watson again, and that’s no good for either of you. You know how raw he gets when people leave him.”

“I do. And of course I will,” he replied. “Oh, my darling girl, I will miss you horribly.”

“I know,” she said, the tears leaking freely from her hazel eyes. “But this is life, remember? You—“

“We have to let you go. Yes,” he said, a shudder running through his lithe frame. “I love you very much,” he told her solemnly. “Be extraordinary.”

“Always.”

 

She took in a shaky breath, and moved on to John, who was, indeed, in parade stance and doing his damndest to pretend that his only daughter wasn’t moving on in the next step of her life without him. However, that ended the second she clutched him around the middle and buried her head in his neck.

“Daddy,” she mumbled. “Daddy, I’m scared.”

“Alara, you will do _brilliantly_. They won’t know what hit them.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, of course I do. Try not to blow any of their labs up until at least your second year though, ok?”

“Dad,” she screeched, looking affronted. “ _As if_.”

“Hey, I wanted to when I was in school. I know damn fucking well that it’s tempting.”

She looked shifty. “What about controlled explosions?”

“Fine,” he huffed; then he scrubbed his hand through his hair (completely grey by now) and sighed. “You can come home anytime, you know? If you decide this isn’t for you, if you need a break, if you and Hayley have problems—anything. You are always welcome with us.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“Be safe. Be smart. Kick some ass,” he said firmly.

“Love you too,” she snuffled into his jumper.

 

Mycroft was next in their line, in the sunny courtyard of her campus.

“Uncle Mycroft.”

“Alara.”

“Will you miss me?”

“Every day, my dear.”

They hugged, and that was that. Alara had said her farewells to Mrs. Hudson at home earlier, since it wouldn’t have been good for her to come all the way to Wales to wish her off with the rest of them.

She hugged John and Sherlock one last time, and then she and Hayley walked away.

* * *

They all watched her stroll off into the distance, her red hair streaming in the wind and her hand locked firmly in her girlfriend’s, feeling varying degrees of pride and grief. It was very quiet.

“Whatever will we do without her?” John asked.

“Live, John,” Sherlock said, brushing a kiss over his husband’s knuckles. “We’ll carry on, like we always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's DONE AT LAST. I hope y'all enjoyed it. I would love feedback. And I have plans to write a one-shot of their wedding, but I don't know when I'll do that and I am evidently horrific at getting anything I write voluntarily to the public in anything resembling a decent amount of time. 
> 
> Kisses to you all. 
> 
> 50 points to your House if you recognize the Harry Potter reference in this chapter ;)
> 
> If you've been keeping up with this since the beginning (2.5 years ago, god), then thank you so much. I don't deserve any of you.
> 
> You can check out my Tumblr [here](http://nikolailantsov.tk)


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